M  A  R  R  r     M  -c    G   U   f    R   fc 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 


FRONTISPIECE  BY 
WALTER  KING  STONE 


THE   LOG 

OF  THE   SUN 

A  Chronicle  of  Natures  Year 
By  WILLIAM  BEEBE 


GARDEN    CITY    PUBLISHING    CO.,    INC, 

GARDEN     CITY,     NEW     YORK 


COPYRIGHT,    1906, 

BY 
HENBY   HOLT    AND   COMPANY 


PRINTED    IN    THE 
UNITED    STATES    OF   AMERICA 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORN1 
SANTA  BARBARA 


TO  MY 

^Hotter  anb  Jfatfier 

WHOSE  ENCOURAGEMENT  AND  SYMPATHY 

GAVE  IMPETUS  AND  PURPOSE  TO 

A  BOY'S  LOVE  OF  NATURE 


PREFACE 

IN  the  fifty-two  short  essays  of  this  volume  I 
have  presented  familiar  objects  from  unusual 
points  of  view.  Bird's-eye  glances  and  insect 's- 
eye  glances,  at  the  nature  of  our  woods  and  fields, 
will  reveal  beauties  which  are  wholly  invisible 
from  the  usual  human  view-point,  five  feet  or 
more  above  the  ground. 

Who  follows  the  lines  must  expect  to  find 
moods  as  varying  as  the  seasons;  to  face  storm 
and  night  and  cold,  and  all  other  delights  of  what 
wildness  still  remains  to  us  upon  the  earth. 

Emphasis  has  been  laid  upon  the  weak  points 
in  our  knowledge  of  things  about  us,  and  the 
principal  desire  of  the  author  is  to  inspire  enthu- 
siasm in  those  whose  eyes  are  just  opening  to 
the  wild  beauties  of  God's  out-of-doors,  to  gather 
up  and  follow  to  the  end  some  of  these  frayed- 
out  threads  of  mystery. 

Portions  of  the  text  have  been  published  at 
various  times  in  the  pages  of  "Outing,"  "Bec- 
reation,"  "The  Golden  Age,"  "The  New  York 
Evening  Post,"  and  "The  New  York  Tribune." 

C.  W.  B. 

Til 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

JANUARY 

PACK 

BlEDS   OP  THE   SNOW 3 

WINTER  MABVELS 10 

CEDAB  BIRDS  AND  BERRIES    ........  16 

DARK  DAYS  OF  INSECT  LIFE 20 

CHAMELEONS  IN  FUR  AND  FEATHER 25 

FEBRUARY 

FEBRUARY  FEATHERS 33 

FISH  LIFE 39 

TENANTS  OF  WINTER  BIRDS'  NESTS 46 

WINTER  HOLES .       .  50 

MARCH 

FEATHERED  PIONEERS                                  r       .       •       <       •  59 

THE  WAYS  OF  MEADOW  MICE      .......  65 

PROBLEMS  OF  BIRD  LIFE ,       .  69 

DWELLERS  IN  THE  DUST       ...,..,,  75 

APRIL 

SPRING  SONGSTERS  : ,81 

THE  SIMPLE  ART  OF  SAPSUCKIKO       « 87 

WILD  WINGS 91 

THE  BIRDS  IN  THE  MOON 94 

MAY 

HIGH  TIDE  OF  BIRD  LIFE                    * 99 

ANIMAL  FASHIONS          ..........  105 

POLLTWOG  PROBLEMS      .       .       . 110 

INSECT  PIRATES  AND  SUBMARINES 113 

THB  VICTORY  OF  THE  NIGHTHAWK 117 

JUNE 

THE  GALA  DAYS  OF  BIRDS 123 

TURTLE  TRAITS 128 

A  HALF-HOUR  IN  A  MARSH 134 

SECRETS  OF  THE  OCEAN 139 

ix 


x  TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

JULY 

PAQB 

BIBDS  IN  A  CITY 165 

NIGHT  Music  OF  THE  SWAMP 172 

THE  COMING  OP  MAN 179 

THE  SILENT  LANGUAGE  OF  ANIMALS 182 

INSECT  Music 188 

AUGUST 

GRAY  DAYS  OF  BIBDS 195 

LIVES  OF  THE  LANTEBN  BEABEBS 202 

A  STABFISH  AND  A  DAISY 205 

THE  DBEAM  OF  THE  YELLOW-THBOAT 209 

SEPTEMBER 

THE  PASSING  OF  THE  FLOCKS 215 

GHOSTS  OF  THE  EABTH 220 

MUSKBATS 223 

NATURE'S  GEOMETRICIANS 226 

OCTOBER 

AUTUMN  HUNTING  WITH  A  FIELD  GLASS        ....  235 

A  WOODCHUCK  AND    A   GfiEBE 241 

THE  VOICE  OF  ANIMALS 245 

THE  NAMES  OF  ANIMALS,  FBOGS,  AND  FISH     ....  252 

THE  DYING  YEAR 264 

NOVEMBER 

NOVEMBER'S  BIRDS  OF  THE  HEAVENS 269 

A  PLEA  FOB  THE  SKUNK 275 

THE  LESSON  OF  THE  WAVE 278 

WE  Go  A-SPONGING 282 

DECEMBER 

NEW  THOUGHTS  ABOUT  NESTS 291 

LESSONS  FROM  AN  ENGLISH  SPARROW 297 

THE  PERSONALITY  OF  TREES         .......  303 

AN  OWL  OF  THE  NORTH        .       .       .,      ...              .  319 


A  fiery  mist  and  a  planet, 

A  crystal  and  a  cell ; 
A  jelly  fish  and  a  saurian, 

And  the  caves  where  the  cave  men  dwell; 
Then  a  sense  of  law  and  beauty 

And  a  face  turned  from  the  clod, 
Some  call  it  evolution, 

And  others  call  it  God. 

W.  H.  CAEBUTH. 


JANUAHY 


BIRDS  OF  THE  SNOW 

NO  fact  of  natural  history  is  more  interesting, 
or  more  significant  of  the  poetry  of  evolu- 
tion, than  the  distribution  of  birds  over  the  entire 
surface  of  the  world.  They  have  overcome  count- 
less obstacles,  and  adapted  themselves  to  all  con- 
ditions. The  last  faltering  glance  which  the  Arctic 
explorer  sends  toward  his  coveted  goal,  ere  he 
admits  defeat,  shows  flocks  of  snow  buntings 
active  with  warm  life;  the  storm-tossed  mariner 
in  the  midst  of  the  sea,  is  followed,  encircled,  by 
the  steady,  tireless  flight  of  the  albatross;  the 
fever-stricken  wanderer  in  tropical  jungles  listens 
to  the  sweet  notes  of  birds  amid  the  stagnant 
pools ;  while  the  thirsty  traveller  in  the  desert  is 
ever  watched  by  the  distant  buzzards.  Finally 
when  the  intrepid  climber,  at  the  risk  of  life  and 
limb,  has  painfully  made  his  way  to  the  summit 
of  the  most  lofty  peak,  far,  far  above  him,  in  the 
blue  expanse  of  thin  air,  he  can  distinguish  the 
form  of  a  majestic  eagle  or  condor. 

At  the  approach  of  winter  the  flowers  and 
insects  about  us  die,  but  most  of  the  birds  take 
wing  and  fly  to  a  more  temperate  climate,  while 
their  place  is  filled  with  others  which  have  spent 
the  summer  farther  to  the  north.  Thus  without 
stirring  from  our  doorway  we  may  become 

3 


4  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

acquainted  with  many  species  whose  summer 
homes  are  hundreds  of  miles  away. 

No  time  is  more  propitious  or  advisable  for  the 
amateur  bird  lover  to  begin  his  studies  than  the 
first  of  the  year.  Bird  life  is  now  reduced  to  its 
simplest  terms  in  numbers  and  species,  and  the 
absence  of  concealing  foliage,  together  with  the 
usual  tameness  of  winter  birds,  makes  identifica- 
tion an  easy  matter. 

In  January  and  the  succeeding  month  we  have 
with  us  birds  which  are  called  permanent  resi- 
dents, which  do  not  leave  us  throughout  the  enti/e 
year;  and,  in  addition,  the  winter  visitors  which 
have  come  to  us  from  the  far  north. 

In  the  uplands  we  may  flush  ruffed  grouse  from 
their  snug  retreats  in  the  snow ;  while  in  the  weedy 
fields,  many  a  fairy  trail  shows  where  bob-white 
has  passed,  and  often  he  will  announce  his  own 
name  from  the  top  of  a  rail  fence.  The  grouse 
at  this  season  have  a  curious  outgrowth  of  horny 
scales  along  each  side  of  the  toes,  which,  acting 
as  a  tiny  snowshoe,  enables  them  to  walk  on  soft 
snow  with  little  danger  of  sinking  through. 

Few  of  our  winter  birds  can  boast  of  bright 
colours ;  their  garbs  are  chiefly  grays  and  browns, 
but  all  have  some  mark  or  habit  or  note  by  which 
they  can  be  at  once  named.  For  example,  if  you 
see  a  mouse  hitching  spirally  up  a  tree-trunk,  a 
closer  look  will  show  that  it  is  a  brown  creeper, 
seeking  tiny  insects  and  their  eggs  in  the  crevices 


BIRDS  OF  THE  SNOW  5 

of  the  trunk.  He  looks  like  a  small  piece  of  the 
roughened  bark  which  has  suddenly  become  ani- 
mated. His  long  tail  props  him  up  and  his  tiny 
feet  never  fail  to  find  a  foothold.  Our  winter 
birds  go  in  flocks,  and  where  we  see  a  brown 
creeper  we  are  almost  sure  to  find  other  birds. 

Nuthatches  are  those  blue-backed,  white  or 
rufous  breasted  little  climbers  who  spend  their 
lives  defying  the  law  of  gravity.  They  need  no 
supporting  tail,  and  have  only  the  usual  number 
of  eight  toes,  but  they  traverse  the  bark,  up  or 
down,  head  often  pointing  toward  the  ground, 
as  if  their  feet  were  small  vacuum  cups.  Their 
note  is  an  odd  nasal  ny&hl  nyeh! 

In  winter  some  one  species  of  bird  usually  pre- 
dominates, most  often,  perhaps,  it  is  the  black- 
capped  chickadee.  They  seem  to  fill  every  grove, 
and,  if  you  take  your  stand  in  the  woods,  flock 
after  flock  will  pass  in  succession.  What  good 
luck  must  have  come  to  the  chickadee  race  during 
the  preceding  summer  I  Was  some  one  of  their 
enemies  stricken  with  a  plague,  or  did  they  show 
more  than  usual  care  in  the  selecting  of  their 
nesting  holes!  Whatever  it  was,  during  such  a 
year,  it  seems  certain  that  scores  more  of  chicka- 
dee babies  manage  to  live  to  grow  up  than  is 
usually  the  case.  These  little  fluffs  are,  in  their 
way,  as  remarkable  acrobats  as  are  the  nut- 
hatches, and  it  is  a  marvel  how  the  very  thin  legs, 
with  their  tiny  sliver  of  bone  and  thread  of  tendon, 


6  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

can  hold  the  body  of  the  bird  in  almost  any  posi- 
tion, while  the  vainly  hidden  clusters  of  insect 
eggs  are  pried  into.  Without  ceasing  a  moment 
in  their  busy  search  for  food,  the  fluffy  feathered 
members  of  the  flock  call  to  each  other,  t(C~hick-a- 
chick-a-dee-dee!"  but  now  and  then  the  heart  of 
some  little  fellow  bubbles  over,  and  he  rests  an 
instant,  sending  out  a  sweet,  tender,  high  call,  a 
"Phae-be!"  love  note,  which  warms  our  ears  in 
the  frosty  air  and  makes  us  feel  a  real  affection 
for  the  brave  little  mites. 

Our  song  sparrow  is,  like  the  poor,  always  with 
us,  at  least  near  the  coast,  but  we  think  none  the 
less  of  him  for  that,  and  besides,  that  fact  is  true 
in  only  one  sense.  A  ripple  in  a  stream  may  be 
seen  day  after  day,  and  yet  the  water  forming  it 
is  never  the  same,  it  is  continually  flowing  onward. 
This  is  usually  the  case  with  song  sparrows  and 
with  most  other  birds  which  are  present  summer 
and  winter.  The  individual  sparrows  which  flit 
from  bush  to  bush,  or  slip  in  and  out  of  the  brush 
piles  in  January,  have  doubtless  come  from  some 
point  north  of  us,  while  the  song  sparrows  of  our 
summer  walks  are  now  miles,  to  the  southward. 
Few  birds  remain  the  entire  year  in  the  locality 
in  which  they  breed,  although  the  southward 
movement  may  be  a  very  limited  one.  When  birds 
migrate  so  short  a  distance,  they  are  liable  to  be 
affected  in  colour  and  size  by  the  temperature 
and  dampness  of  their  respective  areas;  and  so 


BIRDS  OF  THE  SNOW  7 

we  find  that  in  North  America  there  are  as  many 
as  twenty-two  races  of  song  sparrows,  to  each  of 
which  has  been  given  a  scientific  name.  When  you 
wish  to  speak  of  our  northeastern  song  sparrow 
in  the  latest  scientific  way,  you  must  say 
Melospiza  cinerea  melodia,  which  tells  us  that  it 
is  a  melodious  song  finch,  ashy  or  brown  in  colour. 

Our  winter  sparrows  are  easy  to  identify.  The 
song  sparrow  may,  of  course,  be  known  by  the 
streaks  of  black  and  brown  upon  his  breast  and 
sides,  and  by  the  blotch  which  these  form  in  the 
centre  of  the  breast.  The  tree  sparrow,  which 
comes  to  us  from  Hudson  Bay  and  Labrador, 
lacks  the  stripes,  but  has  the  centre  spot.  This  is 
one  of  our  commonest  field  birds  in  winter,  not- 
withstanding his  name. 

The  most  omnipresent  and  abundant  of  all  our 
winter  visitors  from  the  north  are  the  juncos,  or 
snowbirds.  Slate  coloured  above  and  white  below, 
perfectly  describes  these  birds,  although  their  dis- 
tinguishing mark,  visible  a  long  way  off,  is  the 
white  V  in  their  tails,  formed  by  several  white 
outer  feathers  on  each  side.  The  sharp  chirps  of 
juncos  are  heard  before  the  ice  begins  to  form, 
and  they  stay  with  us  all  winter. 

We  have  called  the  junco  a  snowbird,  but  this 
name  should  really  be  confined  to  a  black  and 
white  bunting  which  comes  south  only  with  a  mid- 
winter 7s  rush  of  snowflakes.  Their  warm  little 
bodies  nestle  close  to  the  white  crystals,  and  they 


8  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

seek  cheerfully  for  the  seeds  which  nature  has 
provided  for  them.  Then  a  thaw  comes,  and  they 
disappear  as  silently  and  mysteriously  as  if  they 
had  melted  with  the  flakes ;  but  doubtless  they  are 
far  to  the  northward,  hanging  on  the  outskirts  of 
the  Arctic  storms,  and  giving  way  only  when  every 
particle  of  food  is  frozen  tight,  the  ground  cov- 
ered deep  with  snow,  and  the  panicled  seed  clus- 
ters locked  in  crystal  frames  of  ice. 

The  feathers  of  these  Arctic  wanderers  are 
perfect  non-conductors  of  heat  and  of  cold,  and 
never  a  chill  reaches  their  little  frames  until 
hunger  presses.  Then  they  must  find  food  and 
quickly,  or  they  die.  When  these  snowflakes  first 
come  to  us  they  are  tinged  with  gray  and  brown, 
but  gradually  through  the  winter  their  colours 
become  more  clear-cut  and  brilliant,  until,  when 
spring  comes,  they  are  garbed  in  contrasting 
black  and  white.  With  all  this  change,  however, 
they  leave  never  a  feather  with  us,  but  only  the 
minute  brown  tips  of  the  feather  vanes,  which,  by 
wearing  away,  leave  exposed  the  clean  new 
colours  beneath. 

Thus  we  find  that  there  are  problems  innumer- 
able to  verify  and  to  solve,  even  when  the  tide  of 
the  year's  life  is  at  its  lowest  ebb. 

From  out  the  white  and  pulsing  storm 

I  hear  the  snowbirds  calling; 
The  sheeted  winds  stalk  o'er  the  hills, 

And  fast  the  snow  is  falling. 


BIRDS  OF  THE  SNOW 

On  twinkling  wings  they  eddy  past, 

At  home  amid  the  drifting, 
Or  seek  the  hills  and  weedy  fields 

Where  fast  the  snow  is  sifting. 

Their  coats  are  dappled  white  and  brown 

Like  fields  in  winter  weather, 
But  on  the  azure  sky  they  float 

Like  snowflakes  knit  together. 

I've  heard  them  on  the  spotless  hills 
Where  fox  and  hound  were  playing. 

The  while  I  stood  with  eager  ear 
Bent  on  the  distant  baying. 

The  unmown  fields  are  their  preserves, 
Where  weeds  and  grass  are  seeding; 

They  know  the  lure  of  distant  stacks 
Wher«  houseless  herds  are  feeding. 

JOHN  BURROUGHS. 


WINTER  MARVELS 

ET  us  suppose  that  a  heavy  snow  has  fallen 
and  that  we  have  been  a-birding  in  vain. 
For  once  it  seems  as  if  all  the  birds  Jiad  gone  the 
way  of  the  butterflies.  But  we  are  not  true  bird- 
lovers  unless  we  can  substitute  nature  for  bird 
whenever  the  occasion  demands  ;  specialisation  is 
only  for  the  ultra-scientist. 

There  is  more  to  be  learned  in  a  snowy  field 
than  volumes  could  tell.  There  is  the  tangle  of 
footprints  to  unravel,  the  history  of  the  pastimes 
and  foragings  and  tragedies  of  the  past  night 
writ  large  and  unmistakable.  Though  the  sun  now 
shines  brightly,  we  can  well  imagine  the  cold  dark- 
ness of  six  hours  ago;  we  can  reconstruct  the 
whole  scene  from  those  tiny  tracks,  showing  fran- 
tic leaps,  the  indentation  of  two  wing-tips, — a 
speck  of  blood.  But  let  us  take  a  bird's-eye  view 
of  things,  from  a  bird's-head  height;  that  is,  lie 
flat  upon  a  board  or  upon  the  clean,  dry  crystals 
and  see  what  wonders  we  have  passed  by  all  our 
lives. 

Take  twenty  square  feet  of  snow  with  a  stream- 
let through  the  centre,  and  we  have  an  epitome  of 
geological  processes  and  conditions.  With  chin 
upon  mittens  and  mittens  upon  the  crust,  the  eye 
10 


WINTER  MARVELS  11 

opens  npon  a  new  world.  The  half -covered  rivu- 
let becomes  a  monster  glacier-fed  stream,  rushing 
down  through  grand  canyons  and  caves,  hung  with 
icy  stalactites.  Bit  by  bit  the  walls  are  under- 
mined and  massive  icebergs  become  detached  and 
are  whirled  away.  As  for  moraines,  we  have  them 
in  plenty;  only  the  windrows  of  thousands  upon 
thousands  of  tiny  seeds  of  which  they  are  com- 
posed, are  not  permanent,  but  change  their  form 
and  position  with  every  strong  gust  of  wind.  And 
with  every  gust  too  their  numbers  increase,  the 
harvest  of  the  weeds  being  garnered  here,  upon 
barren  ground.  No  wonder  the  stream  will  be 
hidden  from  view  next  summer,  when  the  myriad 
seeds  sprout  and  begin  to  fight  upward  for  light 
and  air. 

If  we  cannot  hope  for  polar  bears  to  complete 
our  Arctic  scene,  we  may  thrill  at  the  sight  of  a 
sinuous  weasel,  winding  his  way  among  the 
weeds;  and  if  we  look  in  vain  for  swans,  we  at 
least  may  rejoice  in  a  whirling,  white  flock  of  snow 
buntings. 

A  few  flakes  fall  gently  upon  our  sleeve  and 
another  world  opens  before  us.  A  small  hand- 
lens  will  be  of  service,  although  sharp  eyes  may 
dispense  with  it.  Gather  a  few  recently  fallen 
flakes  upon  a  piece  of  black  cloth,  and  the  lens  will 
reveal  jewels  more  beautiful  than  any  ever 
fashioned  by  the  hand  of  man.  Six-pointed  crys- 
tals, always  hexagonal,  of  a  myriad  patterns, 


12  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

leave  us  lost  in  wonderment  when  we  look  out  over 
the  white  landscape  and  think  of  the  hidden  beauty 
of  it  all.  The  largest  glacier  of  Greenland  or 
Alaska  is  composed  wholly  of  just  such  crystals 
whose  points  have  melted  and  which  have  become 
ice. 

We  may  draw  or  photograph  scores  of  these 
beautiful  crystals  and  never  duplicate  a  figure. 
Some  are  almost  solid  and  tabular,  others  are 
simple  stars  or  fern-branched.  Then  we  may 
detect  compound  forms,  crystals  within  crystals, 
and,  rarest  of  all,  doubles,  where  two  different 
forms  appear  as  joined  together  by  a  tiny  pillar. 
In  all  of  these  we  have  an  epitome  of  the  crystals 
of  the  rocks  beneath  our  feet,  only  in  their  case 
the  pressure  has  moulded  them  into  straight  col- 
umns, while  the  snow,  forming  unhindered  in  mid- 
air, resolves  itself  into  these  exquisite  forms  and 
floral  designs.  Flowers  and  rocks  are  not  so  very 
unlike  after  all. 

Few  of  us  can  observe  these  wonderful  forms 
without  feeling  the  poetry  of  it  all.  Thoreau  on 
the  fifth  day  of  January,  1856,  writes  as  follows : 
.  .  .  "The  thin  snow  now  driving  from  the  north 
and  lodging  on  my  coat  consists  of  those  beauti- 
ful star  crystals,  not  cottony  and  chubby  spokes 
as  on  the  13th  of  December,  but  thin  and  partly 
transparent  crystals.  They  are  about  one  tenth 
of  an  inch  in  diameter,  perfect  little  wheels  with 
six  spokes,  without  a  tire,  or  rather  with  six  per- 


WINTER  MARVELS  13 

feet  little  leaflets,  fern-like,  with  a  distinct, 
straight,  slender  midrib  raying  from  the  centre. 
On  each  side  of  each  midrib  there  is  a  transparent, 
thin  blade  with  a  crenate  edge.  How  full  of  the 
creative  genius  is  the  air  in  which  these  are  gen- 
erated !  I  should  hardly  admire  more  if  real  stars 
fell  and  lodged  on  my  coat.  Nature  is  full  of 
genius,  full  of  the  divinity,  so  that  not  a  snow- 
flake  escapes  its  fashioning  hand.  Nothing  is 
cheap  and  coarse,  neither  dewdrops  nor  snow- 
flakes.  Soon  the  storm  increases  (it  was  already 
very  severe  to  face),  and  the  snow  becomes  finer, 
more  white  and  powdery. 

"Who  knows  but  this  is  the  original  form  of  all 
snowflakes,  but  that,  when  I  observe  these  crystal 
stars  falling  around  me,  they  are  only  just  gen- 
erated in  the  low  mist  next  the  earth.  I  am  nearer 
to  the  source  of  the  snow,  its  primal  auroral,  and 
golden  hour  of  infancy ;  commonly  the  flakes  reach 
us  travel-worn  and  agglomerated,  comparatively, 
without  order  or  beauty,  far  down  in  their  fall, 
like  men  in  their  advanced  age.  As  for  the  cir- 
cumstances under  which  this  occurs,  it  is  quite 
cold,  and  the  driving  storm  is  bitter  to  face,  though 
very  little  snow  is  falling.  It  comes  almost  hori- 
zontally from  the  north.  ...  A  divinity  must 
have  stirred  within  them,  before  the  crystals  did 
thus  shoot  and  set :  wheels  of  the  storm  chariots. 
The  same  law  that  shapes  the  earth  and  the  stars 
shapes  the  snowflake.  Call  it  rather  snow  star. 


14  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

As  surely  as  the  petals  of  a  flower  are  numbered, 
each  of  these  countless  snow  stars  comes  whirling 
to  earth,  pronouncing  thus  with  emphasis  the 
number  six,  order,  xoapog.  This  was  the  begin- 
ning of  a  storm  which  reached  far  and  wide,  and 
elsewhere  was  more  severe  than  here.  On  the 
Saskatchewan,  where  no  man  of  science  is  present 
to  behold,  still  down  they  come,  and  not  the  less 
fulfil  their  destiny,  perchance  melt  at  once  on  the 
Indian's  face.  What  a  world  we  live  in,  where 
myriads  of  these  little  discs,  so  beautiful  to  the 
most  prying  eye,  are  whirled  down  on  every 
traveller's  coat,  the  observant  and  the  unobserv- 
ant, on  the  restless  squirrel's  fur,  on  the  far- 
stretching  fields  and  forests,  the  wooded  dells  and 
the  mountain  tops.  Far,  far  away  from  the  haunts 
of  men,  they  roll  down  some  little  slope,  fall  over 
and  come  to  their  bearings,  and  melt  or  lose  their 
beauty  in  the  mass,  ready  anon  to  swell  some  little 
rill  with  their  contribution,  and  so,  at  last,  the 
universal  ocean  from  which  they  came.  There 
they  lie,  like  the  wreck  of  chariot  wheels  after  a 
battle  in  the  skies.  Meanwhile  the  meadow  mouse 
shoves  them  aside  in  his  gallery,  the  schoolboy 
casts  them  in  his  ball,  or  the  woodman's  sled 
glides  smoothly  over  them,  these  glorious 
spangles,  the  sweepings  of  heaven's  floor.  And 
they  all  sing,  melting  as  they  sing,  of  the  mysteries 
of  the  number  six ;  six,  six,  six.  He  takes  up  the 
waters  of  the  sea  in  his  hand,  leaving  the  salt ;  he 


WINTER  MARVELS  15 

disperses  it  in  mist  through  the  skies;  he  re-col- 
lects and  sprinkles  it  like  grain  in  six-rayed  snowy 
stars  over  the  earth,  there  to  lie  till  he  dissolves 
its  bonds  again." 

But  here  is  a  bit  of  snow  which  seems  less  pure, 
with  grayish  patches  here  and  there.  Down  again 
to  sparrow-level  and  bring  the  glass  to  bear. 
Your  farmer  friend  will  tell  you  that  they  are 
snow-fleas  which  are  snowed  down  with  the  flakes ; 
the  entomologist  will  call  them  Acliorutes  nivicola 
and  he  knows  that  they  have  prosaically  wiggled 
their  way  from  the  crevices  of  bark  on  the  nearest 
tree-trunk.  One's  thrill  of  pleasure  at  this  unex- 
pected discovery  will  lead  one  to  adopt  sparrow- 
views  whenever  larger  game  is  lacking. 

I  walked  erstwhile  upon  thy  frozen  waves, 

And  heard  the  streams  amid  thy  ice-locked  caves; 

I  peered  down  thy  crevasses  blue  and  dim, 

Standing  in  awe  upon  the  dizzy  rim. 

Beyond  me  lay  the  inlet  still  and  blue, 

Behind,  the  mountains  loomed  upon  the  view 

Like  storm-wraiths  gathered  from  the  low-hung  sky. 

A  gust  of  wind  swept  past  with  heavy  sigh, 

And  lo !  I  listened  to  the  ice-stream's  song 

Of  winter  when  the  nights  grow  dark  and  long, 

And  bright  stars  flash  above  thy  fields  of  snow, 

The  cold  waste  sparkling  in  the  pallid  glow. 

CHARLES  KEELER. 


CEDAE  BIRDS  AND  BERRIES 

KEEP  sharp  eyes  upon  the  cedar  groves  in 
mid-winter,  and  sooner  or  later  you  will  see 
the  waxwings  come,  not  singly  or  in  pairs,  but  by 
dozens,  and  sometimes  in  great  flocks.  They  will 
well  repay  all  the  watching  one  gives  them.  The 
cedar  waxwing  is  a  strange  bird,  with  a  very  pro- 
nounced species-individuality,  totally  unlike  any 
other  bird  of  our  country.  When  feeding  on  their 
favourite  winter  berries,  these  birds  show  to  great 
advantage;  the  warm  rich  brown  of  the  upper 
parts  and  of  the  crest  contrasting  with  the  black, 
scarlet,  and  yellow,  and  these,  in  turn,  with  the 
dark  green  of  the  cedar  and  the  white  of  the  snow. 

The  name  waxwing  is  due  to  the  scarlet  orna- 
ments at  the  tips  of  the  lesser  flight  feathers  and 
some  of  the  tail  feathers,  which  resemble  bits  of 
red  sealing  wax,  but  which  are  really  the  bare, 
flattened  ends  of  the  feather  shafts.  Cherry-bird 
is  another  name  which  is  appropriately  applied  to 
the  cedar  waxwing. 

These  birds  are  never  regular  in  their  move- 
ments, and  they  come  and  go  without  heed  to 
weather  or  date.  They  should  never  be  lightly 
passed  by,  but  their  flocks  carefully  examined,  lest 
among  their  ranks  may  be  hidden  a  Bohemian 

16 


CEDAR  BIRDS  AND  BERRIES  17 

chatterer — a  stately  waxwing  larger  than  com- 
mon and  even  more  beautiful  in  hue,  whose  large 
size  and  splashes  of  white  upon  its  wings  will 
always  mark  it  out. 

This  bird  is  one  of  our  rarest  of  rare  visitors, 
breeding  in  the  far  north ;  and  even  in  its  nest  and 
eggs  mystery  enshrouds  it.  Up  to  fifty  years  ago, 
absolutely  nothing  was  known  of  its  nesting 
habits,  although  during  migration  Bohemian  chat- 
terers are  common  all  over  Europe.  At  last  Lap- 
land was  found  to  be  their  home,  and  a  nest  has 
been  found  in  Alaska  and  several  others  in  Labra- 
dor. My  only  sight  of  these  birds  was  of  a  pair 
perched  in  an  elm  tree  in  East  Orange,  New  Jer- 
sey; but  I  will  never  forget  it,  and  will  never 
cease  to  hope  for  another  such  red-letter  day. 

The  movements  of  the  cedar  waxwings  are  as 
uncertain  in  summer  as  they  are  in  winter;  they 
may  be  common  in  one  locality  for  a  year  or  two, 
and  then,  apparently  without  reason,  desert  it.  At 
this  season  they  feed  on  insects  instead  of  berries, 
and  may  be  looked  for  in  small  flocks  in  orchard 
or  wood.  The  period  of  nesting  is  usually  late, 
and,  in  company  with  the  goldfinches,  they  do  not 
begin  their  house-keeping  until  July  and  August. 
Unlike  other  birds,  waxwings  will  build  their  nests 
of  almost  anything  near  at  hand,  and  apparently 
in  any  growth  which  takes  their  fancy, — apple, 
oak,  or  cedar.  The  nests  are  well  constructed, 
however,  and  often,  with  their  contents,  add 


18  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

another  background  of  a  most  pleasing  harmony 
of  colours.  A  nest  composed  entirely  of  pale 
green  hanging  moss,  with  eggs  of  bluish  gray, 
spotted  and  splashed  with  brown  and  black, 
guarded  by  a  pair  of  these  exquisite  birds,  is  a 
sight  to  delight  the  eye. 

When  the  young  have  left  the  nest,  if  alarmed 
by  an  intruder,  they  will  frequently,  trusting  to 
their  protective  dress  of  streaky  brown,  freeze 
into  most  unbird-like  attitudes,  drawing  the 
feathers  close  to  the  body  and  stretching  the  neck 
stiffly  upward, — almost  bittern-like.  Undoubtedly 
other  interesting  habits  which  these  strangely 
picturesque  birds  may  possess  are  still  awaiting 
discovery  by  some  enthusiastic  observer  with  a 
pair  of  opera-glasses  and  a  stock  of  that  ever 
important  characteristic — patience. 

Although,  during  the  summer  months,  myriads 
of  insects  are  killed  and  eaten  by  the  cedar  wax* 
wings,  yet  these  birds  are  pre-eminently  berry 
eaters, — choke-cherries,  cedar  berries,  blueber- 
ries, and  raspberries  being  preferred.  Watch  a 
flock  of  these  birds  in  a  cherry  tree,  and  you  will 
see  the  pits  fairly  rain  down.  We  need  not  place 
our  heads,  a  la  Newton,  in  the  path  of  these  falling 
stones  to  deduce  some  interesting  facts, — indeed 
to  solve  the  very  destiny  of  the  fruit.  Many  whole 
cherries  are  carried  away  by  the  birds  to  be  de- 
voured elsewhere,  or  we  may  see  parent  waxwing; 


CEDAR  BIRDS  AND  BERRIES  19 

filling  their  gullets  with  ten  or  a  dozen  berries  and 
carrying  them  to  the  eager  nestlings. 

Thus  is  made  plain  the  why  and  the  wherefore 
of  the  coloured  skin,  the  edible  flesh,  and  the  hid- 
den stone  of  the  fruit.  The  conspicuous  racemes 
of  the  choke-cherries,  or  the  shining  scarlet  globes 
of  the  cultivated  fruit,  fairly  shout  aloud  to  the 
birds — "Come  and  eat  us,  we're  as  good  as  we 
look!"  But  Mother  Nature  looks  on  and  laughs 
to  herself.  Thistle  seeds  are  blown  to  the  land's 
end  by  the  wind;  the  heavier  ticks  and  burrs  are 
carried  far  and  wide  upon  the  furry  coats  of  pass- 
ing creatures ;  but  the  cherry  could  not  spread  its 
progeny  beyond  a  branch's  length,  were  it  not  for 
the  ministrations  of  birds.  With  birds,  as  with 
some  other  bipeds,  the  shortest  way  to  the  heart 
is  through  the  stomach,  and  a  choke-cherry  tree 
in  full  blaze  of  fruit  is  always  a  natural  aviary. 
"Where  a  cedar  bird  has  built  its  nest,  there  look 
some  day  to  see  a  group  of  cherry  trees;  where 
convenient  fence-perches  along  the  roadside  lead 
past  cedar  groves,  there  hope  before  long  to  see 
a  bird-planted  avenue  of  cedars.  And  so  the  mar- 
vels of  Nature  go  on  evolving, — wheels  within 
wheels. 


THE  DARK  DAYS  OF  INSECT  LIFE 

SOMETIMES  by  too  close  and  confining  study 
of  things  pertaining  to  the  genus  Homo,  we 
perchance  find  ourselves  complacently  wondering 
if  we  have  not  solved  almost  all  the  problems  of 
this  little  whirling  sphere  of  water  and  earth.  Our 
minds  turn  to  the  ultra  questions  of  atoms  and 
ions  and  rays  and  our  eyes  strain  restlessly  up- 
ward toward  our  nearest  planet  neighbour,  in 
half  admission  that  we  must  soon  take  up  the 
study  of  Mars  from  sheer  lack  of  earthly  conquest. 

If  so  minded,  hie  you  to  the  nearest  grove  and, 
digging  down  through  the  mid-winter's  snow, 
bring  home  a  spadeful  of  leaf -mould.  Examine 
it  carefully  with  hand-lens  and  microscope,  and 
then  prophesy  what  warmth  and  light  will  bring 
forth.  Watch  the  unfolding  life  of  plant  and  ani- 
mal, and  then  come  from  your  planet-yearning 
back  to  earth,  with  a  humbleness  born  of  a  realisa- 
tion of  our  vast  ignorance  of  the  commonest  things 
about  us. 

Though  the  immediate  mysteries  of  the  seed  and 
the  egg  baffle  us,  yet  the  most  casual  lover  of 
God's  out-of-doors  may  hopefully  attempt  to  solve 
the  question  of  some  of  the  winter  homes  of 
insects.  Think  of  the  thousands  upon  thousands 
90 


THE  DARK  DAYS  OF  INSECT  LIFE          21 

of  eggs  and  pupae  [which,  are  hidden  in  every 
grove;  what  catacombs  of  bug  mummies  yonder 
log  conceals, — mummies  whose  resurrection  will 
be  brought  about  by  the  alchemy  of  thawing  sun- 
beams. Follow  out  the  suggestion  hinted  at  above 
and  place  a  handkerchief  full  of  frozen  mould  or 
decayed  wood  in  a  white  dish,  and  the  tiny  uni- 
verse which  will  gradually  unfold  before  you  will 
provide  many  hours  of  interest.  But  remember 
your  responsibilities  in  so  doing,  and  do  not  let 
the  tiny  plant  germs  languish  and  die  for  want 
of  water,  or  the  feeble,  newly-hatched  insects 
perish  from  cold  or  lack  a  bit  of  scraped  meat. 

Cocoons  are  another  never-ending  source  of 
delight.  If  you  think  that  there  are  no  unsolved 
problems  of  the  commonest  insect  life  around  us, 
say  why  it  is  that  the  moths  and  millers  pass  the 
winter  wrapped  in  swaddling  clothes  of  densest 
textures,  roll  upon  roll  of  silken  coverlets ;  while 
our  delicate  butterflies  hang  uncovered,  suspended 
only  by  a  single  loop  of  silk,  exposed  to  the  cold 
blast  of  every  northern  gale?  Why  do  the  cater- 
pillars of  our  giant  moths — the  mythologically 
named  Cecropia,  Polyphemus,  Luna,  and  Prome- 
theus— show  such  individuality  in  the  position 
which  they  choose  for  their  temporary  shrouds? 
Protection  and  concealment  are  the  watchwords 
held  to  in  each  case,  but  how  differently  they  are 
achieved ! 

Cecropia — that  beauty  whose  wings,  fully  six 


22  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

inches  across,  will  flap  gracefully  through  the 
summer  twilight — weaves  about  himself  a  half 
oval  mound,  along  some  stem  or  tree-trunk,  and 
becomes  a  mere  excrescence — the  veriest  Tin- 
edible  thing  a  bird  may  spy.  Polyphemus  wraps 
miles  of  finest  silk  about  his  green  worm-form 
|(how,  even  though  we  watch  him  do  it,  we  can  only 
guess) ;  weaving  in  all  the  surrounding  leaves  he 
can  reach.  This,  of  course,  before  the  frosts  come, 
but  when  the  leaves  at  last  shrivel,  loosen,  and 
their  petioles  break,  it  is  merely  a  larger  brown 
nut  than  usual  that  falls  to  the  ground,  the  kernel 
of  which  will  sprout  next  June  and  blossom  into 
the  big  moth  of  delicate  fawn  tints,  feathery 
horned,  with  those  strange  isinglass  windows  in 
his  hind  wings. 

Luna — the  weird,  beautiful  moon-moth,  whose 
pale  green  hues  and  long  graceful  streamers  make 
us  realise  how  much  beauty  we  miss  if  we  neglect 
the  night  life  of  summer — when  clad  in  her 
temporary  shroud  of  silk,  sometimes  falls  to  the 
ground,  or  again  the  cocoon  remains  in  the  tree 
or  bush  where  it  was  spun. 

But  Prometheus,  the  smallest  of  the  quartet, 
has  a  way  all  his  own.  The  elongated  cocoon, 
looking  like  a  silken  finger,  is  woven  about  a  leaf 
of  sassafras.  Even  the  long  stem  of  the  leaf  is 
silk-girdled,  and  a  strong  band  is  looped  about  the 
twig  to  which  the  leaf  is  attached.  Here,  when 
all  the  leaves  fall,  he  hangs,  the  plaything  of 


THE  DARK  DAYS  OF  INSECT  LIFE          23 

every  breeze,  attracting  the  attention  of  all  the 
hungry  birds.  But  little  does  Prometheus  care. 
Sparrows  may  hover  about  him  and  peck  in  vain ; 
chickadees  may  clutch  the  dangling  finger  and 
pound  with  all  their  tiny  might.  Prometheus  is 
"bound,"  indeed,  and  merely  swings  the  faster, 
up  and  down,  from  side  to  side. 

It  is  interesting  to  note  that  when  two  Prome- 
theus cocoons,  fastened  upon  their  twigs,  were 
suspended  in  a  large  cageful  of  native  birds,  it 
took  a  healthy  chickadee  just  three  days  of  hard 
pounding  and  unravelling  to  force  a  way  through 
the  silken  envelopes  to  the  chrysalids  within. 
Such  long  continued  and  persistent  labour  for  so 
comparatively  small  a  morsel  of  food  would  not 
be  profitable  or  even  possible  out-of-doors  in  win- 
ter. The  bird  would  starve  to  death  while  forcing 
its  way  through  the  protecting  silk. 

These  are  only  four  of  the  many  hundreds  of 
cocoons,  from  the  silken  shrouds  on  the  topmost 
branches  to  the  jugnecked  chrysalis  of  a  sphinx 
moth — offering  us  the; riddle  of  a  winter's  shelter 
buried  in  the  cold,  dark  earth. 

Is  everything  frozen  tight  ?  Has  Nature 's  frost 
mortar  cemented  every  stone  in  its  bed?  Then 
cut  off  the  solid  cups  of  the  pitcher  plants,  and 
see  what  insects  formed  the  last  meal  of  these 
strange  growths, — ants,  flies,  bugs,  encased  in 
ice  like  the  fossil  insects  caught  in  the  amber  sap 
which  flowed  so  many  thousands  of  years  ago, 


24  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

When  the  fierce  northwestern  blast 
Cools  sea  and  land  so  far  and  fast, 
Thou  already  slumberest  deep; 
Woe  and  want  thou  canst  outsleep. 

EMERSON. 


CHAMELEONS  IN  FUR  AND  FEATHER 

THE  colour  of  things  in  nature  has  been  the 
subject  of  many  volumes  and  yet  it  may  be 
truthfully  said  that  no  two  naturalists  are  wholly 
agreed  on  the  interpretation  of  the  countless  hues 
of  plants  and  animals.  Some  assert  that  all  alleged 
instances  of  protective  colouring  and  mimicry  are 
merely  the  result  of  accident ;  while  at  the  oppo- 
site swing  of  the  pendulum  we  find  theories,  pro- 
tective and  mimetic,  for  the  colours  of  even  the 
tiny  one-celled  green  plants  which  cover  the  bark 
of  trees !  Here  is  abundant  opportunity  for  any 
observer  of  living  nature  to  help  toward  the  solu- 
tion of  these  problems. 

In  a  battle  there  are  always  two  sides  and  at  its 
finish  one  side  always  runs  away  while  the  other 
pursues.  Thus  it  is  in  the  wars  of  nature,  only 
here  the  timid  ones  are  always  ready  to  flee,  while 
the  strong  are  equally  prepared  to  pursue.  It  is 
only  by  constant  vigilance  that  the  little  mice  can 
save  themselves  from  disappearing  down  the 
throats  of  their  enemies,  as  under  cover  of  dark- 
ness they  snatch  nervous  mouthfuls  of  grain  in 
the  fields, — and  hence  their  gray  colour  and  their 
large,  watchful  eyes;  but  on  the  other  hand,  the 
baby  owls  in  their  hollow  tree  would  starve  if  the 

25 


26  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

parents  were  never  able  to  swoop  down  in  the 
darkness  and  surprise  a  mouse  now  and  then,— 
hence  the  gray  plumage  and  great  eyes  of  the 
parent  owls. 

The  most  convincing  proof  of  the  reality  of  pro- 
tective coloration  is  in  the  change  of  plumage  or 
fur  of  some  of  the  wild  creatures  to  suit  the  sea- 
son. In  the  far  north,  the  grouse  or  ptarmigan, 
as  they  are  called,  do  not  keep  feathers  of  the 
same  colour  the  year  round,  as  does  our  ruffed 
grouse ;  but  change  their  dress  no  fewer  than  three 
times.  "When  rocks  and  moss  are  buried  deep 
beneath  the  snow,  and  a  keen-eyed  hawk  appears, 
the  white-feathered  ptarmigan  crouches  and  be- 
comes an  inanimate  mound.  Later  in  the  year, 
with  the  increasing  warmth,  patches  of  gray  and 
brown  earth  appear,  and  simultaneously,  as  if  its 
feathers  were  really  snowflakes,  splashes  of  brown 
replace  the  pure  white  of  the  bird's  plumage,  and 
equally  baffle  the  eye.  Seeing  one  of  these  birds 
by  itself,  we  could  readily  tell,  from  the  colour  of 
its  plumage,  the  time  of  year  and  general  aspect 
of  the  country  from  which  it  came.  Its  plumage 
is  like  a  mirror  which  reflects  the  snow,  the  moss, 
or  the  lichens  in  turn.  It  is,  indeed,  a  feathered 
chameleon,  but  with  changes  of  colour  taking  place 
more  slowly  than  is  the  case  in  the  reptile. 

We  may  discover  changes  somewhat  similar, 
but  furry  instead  of  feathery,  in  the  woods  about 
our  home.  The  fiercest  of  all  the  animals  of  our 


CHAMELEONS  IN  FUR  AND  FEATHER      27, 

continent  still  evades  the  exterminating  inroads 
of  man;  indeed  it  often  puts  his  traps  to  shame, 
and  wages  destructive  warfare  in  his  very  midst. 
I  speak  of  the  weasel, — the  least  of  all  his  family, 
and  yet,  for  his  size,  the  most  bloodthirsty  and 
widely  dreaded  little  demon  of  all  the  country- 
side. His  is  a  name  to  conjure  with  among  all  the 
lesser  wood-folk ;  the  scent  of  his  passing  brings 
an  almost  helpless  paralysis.  And  yet  in  some 
way  he  must  be  handicapped,  for  his  slightly 
larger  cousin,  the  mink,  finds  good  hunting  the 
year  round,  clad  in  a  suit  of  rich  brown ;  while  the 
weasel,  at  the  approach  of  winter,  sheds  his  sum- 
mer dress  of  chocolate  hue  and  dons  a  pure  white 
fur,  a  change  which  would  seem  to  put  the  poor 
mice  and  rabbits  at  a  hopeless  disadvantage. 
Nevertheless  the  ermine,  as  he  is  now  called 
(although  wrongly  so),  seems  just  able  to  hold  his 
own,  with  all  his  evil  slinking  motions  and  blood- 
thirsty desires ;  for  foxes,  owls,  and  hawks  take, 
in  their  turn,  heavy  toll.  Nature  is  ever  a  repeti- 
tion of  the  " House  that  Jack  built"; — this  is 
the  owl  that  ate  the  weasel  that  killed  the  mouse, 
and  so  on. 

The  little  tail-tips  of  milady's  ermine  coat  are 
black;  and  herein  lies  an  interesting  fact  in  the 
coloration  of  the  weasel  and  one  that,  perhaps, 
gives  a  clue  to  some  other  hitherto  inexplicable 
spots  and  markings  on  the  fur,  feathers,  skin,  and 
scales  of  wild  creatures.  Whatever  the  season, 


28  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

and  whatever  the  colour  of  the  weasel's  coat, — 
brown  or  white, — the  tip  of  the  tail  remains 
always  black.  This  would  seem,  at  first  thought, 
a  very  bad  thing  for  the  little  animal.  Knowing 
so  little  of  fear,  he  never  tucks  his  tail  between 
his  legs,  and,  when  shooting  across  an  open 
expanse  of  snow,  the  black  tip  ever  trailing  after 
him  would  seem  to  mark  him  out  for  destruction 
by  every  observing  hawk  or  fox. 

But  the  very  opposite  is  the  case  as  Mr.  Witmer 
Stone  so  well  relates.  "If  you  place  a  weasel  in 
its  winter  white  on  new-fallen  snow,  in  such  a 
position  that  it  casts  no  shadow,  you  will  find  that 
the  black  tip  of  the  tail  catches  your  eye  and  holds 
it  in  spite  of  yourself,  so  that  at  a  little  distance 
it  is  very  difficult  to  follow  the  outline  of  the  rest 
of  the  animal.  Cover  the  tip  of  the  tail  with  snow 
and  you  can  see  the  rest  of  the  weasel  itself 
much  more  clearly;  but  as  long  as  the  black 
point  is  in  sight,  you  see  that,  and  that  only. 

"If  a  hawk  or  owl,  or  any  other  of  the  larger 
hunters  of  the  woodland,  were  to  give  chase  to  a 
weasel  and  endeavour  to  pounce  upon  it,  it  would 
in  all  probability  be  the  black  tip  of  the  tail  it 
would  see  and  strike  at,  while  the  weasel,  darting 
ahead,  would  escape.  It  may,  morever,  serve  as 
a  guide,  enabling  the  young  weasels  to  follow  their 
parents  more  readily  through  grass  and  brambles. 

"One  would  suppose  that  this  beautiful  white 
fur  of  winter,  literally  as  white  as  the  snow,  might 


CHAMELEONS  IN  FUR  AND  FEATHER      29 

prove  a  disadvantage  at  times  by  making  its  owner 
conspicuous  when  the  ground  is  bare  in  winter, 
as  it  frequently  is  even  in  the  North ;  yet  though 
weasels  are  about  more  or  less  by  day,  you  will 
seldom  catch  so  much  as  a  glimpse  of  one  at  such 
times,  though  you  may  hear  their  sharp  chirrup 
close  at  hand.  Though  bold  and  fearless,  they 
have  the  power  of  vanishing  instantly,  and  the 
slightest  alarm  sends  them  to  cover.  I  have  seen 
one  standing  within  reach  of  my  hand  in  the  sun- 
shine on  the  exposed  root  of  a  tree,  and  while  I 
was  staring  at  it,  it  vanished  like  the  flame  of  a 
candle  blown  out,  without  leaving  me  the  slightest 
clue  as  to  the  direction  it  had  taken.  All  the 
weasels  I  have  ever  seen,  either  in  the  woods  or 
open  meadows,  disappeared  in  a  similar  manner. ' ' 
To  add  to  the  completeness  of  proof  that  the 
change  from  brown  to  white  is  for  protection, — 
in  the  case  of  the  weasel,  both  to  enable  it  to 
escape  from  the  fox  and  to  circumvent  the  rabbit, 
— the  weasels  in  Florida,  where  snow  is  unknown, 
do  not  change  colour,  but  remain  brown  through- 
out the  whole  year. 


FEBRUARY 


FEBRUARY  FEATHERS 

FEBRUARY  holes  are  most  interesting  places 
and  one  never  knows  what  will  be  found  in 
the  next  one  investigated.  It  is  a  good  plan,  in 
one's  walks  in  the  early  fall,  to  make  a  mental 
map  of  all  the  auspicious  looking  trees  and  holes, 
and  then  go  the  rounds  of  these  in  winter — as  a 
hunter  follows  his  line  of  traps.  An  old,  neg- 
lected orchard  may  seem  perfectly  barren  of  life ; 
insects  dead,  leaves  fallen,  and  sap  frozen;  but 
the  warm  hearts  of  these  venerable  trees  may 
shelter  much  beside  the  larvae  of  boring  beetles, 
and  we  may  reap  a  winter  harvest  of  which  the 
farmer  knows  nothing. 

Poke  a  stick  into  a  knot-hole  and  stir  up  the 
leaves  at  the  bottom  of  the  cavity,  and  then  look 
in.  Two  great  yellow  eyes  may  greet  you,  glaring 
intermittently,  and  sharp  clicks  may  assail  your 
ears.  Reach  in  with  your  gloved  hand  and  bring 
the  screech  owl  out.  He  will  blink  in  the  sun- 
shine, ruffling  up  his  feathers  until  he  is  twice  his 
real  size.  The  light  partly  blinds  him,  but  toss 
him  into  the  air  and  he  will  fly  without  difficulty 
and  select  with  ease  a  secluded  perch.  The  instant 
he  alights  a  wonderful  transformation  comes  over 
him.  He  stiffens,  draws  himself  as  high  as  pos- 

33 


34  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

sible,  and  compresses  his  feathers  until  he  seems 
naught  but  the  slender,  broken  stump  of 
some  bough, — ragged  topped  (thanks  to  his 
"  horns  "),  gray  and  lichened.  It  is  little  short 
of  a  miracle  how  this  spluttering,  saucer-eyed, 
feathered  cat  can  melt  away  into  woody  fibre 
before  our  very  eyes. 

We  quickly  understand  why  in  the  daytime  the 
little  owl  is  so  anxious  to  hide  his  form  from  pub- 
lic view.  Although  he  can  see  well  enough  to  fly 
and  to  perch,  yet  the  bright  sunlight  on  the  snow 
is  too  dazzling  to  permit  of  swift  and  sure  action. 
All  the  birds  of  the  winter  woods  seem  to  know 
this  and  instantly  take  advantage  of  it.  Spar- 
rows, chickadees,  and  woodpeckers  go  nearly  wild 
with  excitement  when  they  discover  the  little  owl, 
hovering  about  him  and  occasionally  making  darts 
almost  in  his  very  face.  We  can  well  believe  that 
as  the  sun  sets,  after  an  afternoon  of  such  excite- 
ment, they  flee  in  terror,  selecting  for  that  night's 
perch  the  densest  tangle  of  sweetbrier  to  be  found. 

One  hollow  tree  may  yield  a  little  gray  owl, 
while  from  the  next  we  may  draw  a  red  one ;  and 
the  odd  thing  about  this  is  that  this  difference  in 
colour  does  not  depend  upon  age,  sex,  or  season, 
and  no  ornithologist  can  say  why  it  occurs.  What 
can  these  little  fellows  find  to  feed  upon  these  cold 
nights,  when  the  birds  seek  the  most  hidden  and 
sheltered  retreats?  We  might  murder  the  next 
owl  we  come  across ;  but  would  any  fact  we  might 


FEBRUARY  FEATHERS  85. 

discover  in  his  poor  stomach  repay  us  for  the 
thought  of  having  needlessly  cut  short  his  life, 
with  its  pleasures  and  spring  courtships,  and  the 
delight  he  will  take  in  the  half  a  dozen  pearls  over 
which  he  will  soon  watch? 

A  much  better  way  is  to  examine  the  ground 
around  his  favourite  roosting  place,  where  we  will 
find  many  pellets  of  fur  and  bones,  with  now  and 
then  a  tiny  skull.  These  tell  the  tale,  and  if  at 
dusk  we  watch  closely,  we  may  see  the  screech  owl 
look  out  of  his  door,  stretch  every  limb,  purr  his 
shivering  song,  and  silently  launch  out  over  the 
fields,  a  feathery,  shadowy  death  to  all  small  mice 
who  scamper  too  far  from  their  snow  tunnels. 

When  you  feel  like  making  a  new  and  charming 
acquaintance,  take  your  way  to  a  dense  clump  of 
snow-laden  cedars,  and  look  carefully  over  their 
trunks.  If  you  are  lucky  you  will  spy  a  tiny  gray 
form  huddled  close  to  the  sheltered  side  of  the 
bark,  and  if  you  are  careful  you  may  approach  and 
catch  in  your  hand  the  smallest  of  all  our  owls, 
for  the  saw-whet  is  a  dreadfully  sleepy  fellow  in 
the  daytime.  I  knew  of  eleven  of  these  little  gray 
gnomes  dozing  in  a  clump  of  five  small  cedars. 

The  cedars  are  treasure-houses  in  winter,  and 
many  birds  find  shelter  among  the  thick  foliage, 
and  feast  upon  the  plentiful  supply  of  berries, 
when  elsewhere  there  seems  little  that  could  keep 
a  bird's  life  in  its  body.  "When  the  tinkling  of 
breaking  icicles  is  taken  up  by  the  wind  and 


??  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

re-echoed  from  the  tops  of  the  cedars,  you  may 
know  that  a  flock  of  purple  finches  is  near,  and  so 
greedy  and  busy  are  they  that  you  may  approach 
within  a  few  feet  These  birds  are  unfortunately 
as  there  is  nothing  purple  about  their 
The  males  are  a  delicate  rose-red,  while 
the  females  look  like  commonplace  sparrows, 
streaked  all  over  with  black  and  brown. 

There  are  other  winter  birds,  whose  home  is  in 
the  North,  with  a  similar  type  of  coloration. 
Among  the  pines  you  may  see  a  flock  of  birds,  as 
large  as  a  sparrow,  with  strange-looking  beaks. 
The  tips  of  the  two  mandibles  are  long,  curved, 
and  pointed,  crossing  each  other  at  their  ends. 
This  looks  like  a  deformity,  but  is  in  reality  a 
splendid  cone-opener  and  seed-ertracter.  These 
birds  are  the  crossbills. 

Even  in  the  cold  of  a  February  day,  we  may, 
on  very  rare  occasions,  be  fortunate  enough  to 
hear  unexpected  sounds,  such  as  the  rattle  of  a 
belted  kingfisher,  or  the  croak  of  a  night  heron; 
for  these  birds  ling«*r  until  every  bit  of  pond  or 
lake  is  sealed  with  ice ;  and  when  a  thaw  comes,  a 
lonely  bat  may  surprise  -us  with  a  short  flight 
through  the  frosty  air,  before  it  returns  to  its 
winter's  trance. 

Of  course,  in  the  vicinity  of  our  towns  and  cities, 
the  most  noticeable  birds  at  this  season  of  the 
year  (as  indeed  at  aH  seasons)  are  the  English 
and  (at  least  near  New  York  City)  the 


FEBRUABY  FEATHERS  97 

starlings,  those  two  foreigners  which  have 
wrought  snch  havoc  among  our  native  birds. 
Their  mingled  flocks  fly  up,  not  only  from  garbage 
piles  and  gutters,  but  from  the  thickets  and  fields 
which  should  be  filled  with  our  sweet-voiced 
American  birds.  It  is  no  small  matter  for  man 
heedlessly  to  interfere  with  Nature.  What  may 
be  a  harmless,  or  even  useful,  bird  in  its  native 
land  may  prove  a  terrible  scourge  when  intro- 
duced where  there  are  no  enemies  to  keep  it  in 
check.  Nature  is  doing  her  best  to  even  matters 
by  letting  albinism  run  riot  among  the  sparrows, 
and  best  of  all  by  teaching  sparrow  hawks  to  nest 
under  our  eaves  and  thus  be  on  equal  terms  with 
their  sparrow  prey.  The  starlings  are  turning 
out  to  be  worse  than  the  sparrows.  Already  they 
are  invading  the  haunts  of  our  grackles  and  red- 
wings, 

On  some  cold  day,  when  the  sun  is  shining,  visit 
all  the  orchards  of  which  you  know,  and  see  if  ia 
one  or  more  you  cannot  find  a  good-sized,  gray, 
black,  and  white  bird,  which  keeps  to  the  topmost 
branch  of  a  certain  tree.  Look  at  him  carefully 
through  your  glasses,  and  if  his  beak  is  hooked, 
like  that  of  a  hawk,  you  may  know  that  you  are 
watching  a  northern  shrike,  or  butcher  bird.  His 
manner  is  that  of  a  hawk,  and  his  appearance 
causes  instant  panic  among  small  birds.  If  you 
watch  long  enough  you  may  see  him  pursue  and 
kill  a  goldfinch,  or  sparrow,  and  devour  it.  These 


38  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

birds  are  not  even  distantly  related  to  the  hawks, 
but  have  added  a  hawk's  characteristics  and  appe- 
tite to  the  insect  diet  of  their  nearest  relations. 
If  ever  shrikes  will  learn  to  confine  their  attacks 
to  English  sparrows,  we  should  offer  them  every 
encouragement. 

All  winter  long  the  ebony  forms  of  crows  vibrate 
back  and  forth  across  the  cold  sky.  If  we  watch 
them  when  very  high  up,  we  sometimes  see  them 
sail  a  short  distance,  and  without  fail,  a  second 
later,  the  clear  "Caw!  caw!"  comes  down  to  us, 
the  sound-waves  unable  to  keep  pace  with  those 
of  light,  as  the  thunder  of  the  storm  lags  behind 
the  flash.  These  sturdy  birds  seem  able  to  stand 
any  severity  of  the  weather,  but,  like  Achilles,  they 
have  one  vulnerable  point,  the  eyes, — which,  dur- 
ing the  long  winter  nights,  must  be  kept  deep 
buried  among  the  warm  feathers. 


FISH  LIFE 

WE  have  all  looked  down  through  the  clear 
water  of  brook  or  pond  and  watched  the 
gracefully  poised  trout  or  pickerel;  but  have  we 
ever  tried  to  imagine  what  the  life  of  one  of  these 
aquatic  beings  is  really  like?  " Water  Babies" 
perhaps  gives  us  the  best  idea  of  existence  below 
the  water,  but  if  we  spend  one  day  each  month 
for  a  year  in  trying  to  imagine  ourselves  in  the 
place  of  the  fish,  we  will  see  that  a  fish-eye  view 
of  life  holds  much  of  interest. 

What  a  delightful  sensation  must  it  be  to  all 
but  escape  the  eternal  downpull  of  gravity,  to 
float  and  turn  and  rise  and  fall  at  will,  and  all  by 
the  least  twitch  of  tail  or  limb, — for  fish  have 
limbs,  four  of  them,  as  truly  as  has  a  dog  or  horse, 
only  instead  of  fingers  or  toes  there  are  many  deli- 
cate rays  extending  through  the  fin.  These  four 
limb-fins  are  useful  chiefly  as  balancers,  while  the 
tail-fin  is  what  sends  the  fish  darting  through  the 
water,  or  turns  it  to  right  or  left,  with  incredible 
swiftness. 

If  we  were  able  to  examine  some  inhabitant  of 
the  planet  Mars  our  first  interest  would  be  to 
know  with  what  senses  they  were  endowed,  and 
these  finny  creatures  living  in  their  denser  medi- 


40  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

urn,  which  after  a  few  seconds  would  mean  death 
to  us,  excite  the  same  interest.  They  see,  of 
course,  having  eyes,  but  do  they  feel,  hear,  and 
smell  I 

Probably  the  sense  of  taste  is  least  developed. 
"When  a  trout  leaps  at  and  catches  a  fly  he  does 
not  stop  to  taste,  otherwise  the  pheasant  feather 
concealing  the  cruel  hook  would  be  of  little  use. 
When  an  animal  catches  its  food  in  the  water  and 
swallows  it  whole,  taste  plays  but  a  small  part. 
Thus  the  tongue  of  a  pelican  is  a  tiny  flap  all  but 
lost  to  view  in  its  great  bill. 

Water  is  an  excellent  medium  for  carrying  mi- 
nute particles  of  matter  and  so  the  sense  of  smell 
is  well  developed.  A  bit  of  meat  dropped  into  the 
sea  will  draw  the  fish  from  far  and  wide,  and  a 
slice  of  liver  will  sometimes  bring  a  score 
of  sharks  and  throw;  them  into  the  greatest 
excitement 

Fishes  are  probably  very  near-sighted,  but  that 
they  can  distinguish  details  is  apparent  in  the 
choice  which  a  trout  exhibits  in  taking  certain 
coloured  artificial  flies.  We  may  suppose  from 
what  we  know  of  physics  that  when  we  lean  over 
and  look  down  into  a  pool,  the  fishy  eyes  which 
peer  up  at  us  discern  only  a  dark,  irregular  mass. 
I  have  seen  a  pickerel  dodge  as  quickly  at  a  sudden 
cloud-shadow  as  at  the  motion  of  a  man  wielding 
a  fish  pole. 

We  can  be  less  certain  about  the  hearing  of 


FISH  LIFE  41 

fishes.  They  have,  however,  very  respectable 
inner  ears,  built  on  much  the  same  plan  as  in 
higher  animals.  Indeed  many  fish,  such  as  the 
grunts,  make  various  sounds  which  are  plainly 
audible  even  to  our  ears  high  above  the  water,  and 
we  cannot  suppose  that  this  is  a  useless  accom- 
plishment. But  the  ears  of  fishes  and  the  line  of 
tiny  tubes  which  extends  along  the  side  may  be 
more  effective  in  recording  the  tremors  of  the 
water  transmitted  by  moving  objects  than  actual 
sound. 

Watch  a  lazy  catfish  winding  its  way  along  near 
the  bottom,  with  its  barbels  extended,  and  you 
will  at  once  realise  that  fishes  can  feel,  this  func- 
tion being  very  useful  to  those  kinds  which  search 
for  their  food  in  the  mud  at  the  bottom. 

Not  a  breath  of  air  stirs  the  surface  of  the  wood- 
land pond,  and  the  trees  about  the  margin  are 
reflected  unbroken  in  its  surface.  The  lilies  and 
their  pads  lie  motionless,  and  in  and  out  through 
the  shadowy  depths,  around  the  long  stems,  float 
a  school  of  half  a  dozen  little  sunfish.  They  move 
slowly,  turning  from  side  to  side  all  at  once  as 
if  impelled  by  one  idea.  Now  and  then  one  will 
dart  aside  and  snap  up  a  beetle  or  mosquito  larva, 
then  swing  back  to  its  place  among  its  fellows. 
Their  beautiful  scales  flash  scarlet,  blue,  and  gold, 
and  their  little  hand-and-foot  fins  are  ever  trem- 
bling and  waving.  They  drift  upward  nearer  the 


42  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

surface,  the  wide  round  eyes  turning  and  twist- 
ing in  their  sockets,  ever  watchful  for  food  and 
danger.  Without  warning  a  terrific  splash  scat- 
ters them,  and  when  the  ripples  and  bubbles  cease, 
five  frightened  sunfish  cringe  in  terror  among  the 
water  plants  of  the  bottom  mud.  Off  to  her  nest 
goes  the  kingfisher,  bearing  to  her  brood  the 
struggling  sixth. 

Later  in  the  day,  when  danger  seemed  far  off, 
a  double-pointed  vise  shot  toward  the  little  group 
of  "pumpkin  seeds "  and  a  great  blue  heron  swal- 
lowed one  of  their  number.  Another,  venturing 
too  far  beyond  the  protection  of  the  lily  stems  and 
grass  tangle  of  the  shallows,  fell  victim  to  a  vora- 
cious pickerel.  But  the  most  terrible  fate  befell 
when  one  day  a  black  sinuous  body  came  swiftly 
through  the  water.  The  fish  had  never  seen  its 
like  before  and  yet  some  instinct  told  them  that 
here  was  death  indeed  and  they  fled  as  fast  as 
their  fins  could  send  them.  The  young  otter  had 
marked  the  trio  and  after  it  he  sped,  turning, 
twisting,  following  every  movement  with  never  a 
stop  for  breath  until  he  had  caught  his  prey. 

But  the  life  of  a  fish  is  not  all  tragedy,  and  the 
two  remaining  sunfish  may  live  in  peace.  In 
spawning  time  they  clear  a  little  space  close  to 
the  water  of  the  inlet,  pulling  up  the  young  weeds 
and  pushing  up  the  sandy  bottom  until  a  hollow, 
bowl-like  nest  is  prepared.  Thoreau  tells  us  that 
here  the  fish  "may  be  seen  early  in  summer 


FISH  LIFE  4d 

assiduously  brooding,  and  driving  away  minnows 
and  larger  fishes,  even  its  own  species,  which 
would  disturb  its  ova,  pursuing  them  a  few  feet, 
and  circling  round  swiftly  to  its  nest  again;  the 
minnows,  like  young  sharks,  instantly  entering  the 
empty  nests,  meanwhile,  and  swallowing  the 
spawn,  which  is  attached  to  the  weeds  and  to  the 
bottom,  on  the  sunny  side.  The  spawn  is  exposed 
to  so  many  dangers  that  a  very  small  proportion 
can  ever  become  fishes,  for  beside  being  the  con- 
stant prey  of  birds  and  fishes,  a  great  many  nests 
are  made  so  near  the  shore,  in  shallow  water,  that 
they  are  left  dry  in  a  few  days,  as  the  river  goes 
down.  These  and  the  lampreys  are  the  only  fishes' 
nests  that  I  have  observed,  though  the  ova  of  some 
species  may  be  seen  floating  on  the  surface.  The 
sunfish  are  so  careful  of  their  charge  that  you  may 
stand  close  by  in  the  water  and  examine  them  at 
your  leisure.  I  have  thus  stood  over  them  half 
an  hour  at  a  time,  and  stroked  them  familiarly 
without  frightening  them,  suffering  them  to  nibble 
my  fingers  harmlessly,  and  seen  them  erect  their 
dorsal  fins  in  anger  when  my  hand  approached 
their  ova,  and  have  even  taken  them  gently  out 
of  the  water  with  my  hand ;  though  this  cannot  be 
accomplished  by  a  sudden  movement,  however 
dexterous,  for  instant  warning  is  conveyed  to 
them  through  their  denser  element,  but  only  by 
letting  the  fingers  gradually  close  about  them  as 
they  are  poised  over  the  palm,  and  with  the 


44  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

utmost  gentleness  raising  them  slowly  to  the  sur- 
face. Though  stationary,  they  kept  up  a  constant 
sculling  or  waving  motion  with  their  fins,  which  is 
exceedingly  graceful,  and  expressive  of  their 
humble  happiness ;  for  unlike  ours,  the  element  in 
which  they  live  is  a  stream  which  must  be  con- 
stantly resisted.  From  time  to  time  they  nibble 
the  weeds  at  the  bottom  or  overhanging  their 
nests,  or  dart  after  a  fly  or  worm.  The  dorsal 
fin,  besides  answering  the  purpose  of  a  keel,  with 
the  anal,  serves  to  keep  the  fish  upright,  for  in 
shallow  water,  where  this  is  not  covered,  they  fall 
on  their  sides.  As  you  stand  thus  stooping  over 
the  sunfish  in  its  nest,  the  edges  of  the  dorsal  and 
caudal  fins  have  a  singular  dusty  golden  reflec- 
tion, and  its  eyes,  which  stand  out  from  the  head, 
are  transparent  and  colourless.  Seen  in  its  native 
element,  it  is  a  very  beautiful  and  compact  fish, 
perfect  in  all  its  parts,  and  looks  like  a  brilliant 
coin  fresh  from  the  mint.  It  is  a  perfect  jewel  of 
the  river,  the  green,  red,  coppery,  and  golden 
reflections  of  its  mottled  sides  being  the  concen- 
tration of  such  rays  as  struggle  through  the  float- 
ing pads  and  flowers  to  the  sandy  bottom,  and  in 
harmony  with  the  sunlit  brown  and  yellow 
pebbles." 

When  the  cold  days  of  winter  come  and  the  ice 
begins  to  close  over  the  pond,  the  sunfish  become 
sluggish  and  keep  near  the  bottom,  half -hibernat- 
ing but  not  unwilling  to  snap  at  any  bit  of  food 


FISH  LIFE  45 

which  may  drift  near  them.  Lying  prone  on  the 
ice  we  may  see  them  poising  with  slowly  undulat- 
ing fins,  waiting,  in  their  strange  wide-eyed  sleep, 
for  the  warmth  which  will  bring  food  and  active 
life  again. 

3rd.  Fish.    Master,  I  marvel  how  the  fishes  live  in  the  sea. 
1st.  Fish.     Why,  as  men  do  a-land:  the  great  ones  eat  up 
the  little  ones. 

SHAKESPEARE. 


TENANTS  OF  WINTER  BIRDS '  NESTS 

WHEN  we  realise  how  our  lives  are  hedged 
about  by  butchers,  bakers,  and  luxury- 
makers,  we  often  envy  the  wild  creatures  their  in- 
dependence. And  yet,  although  each  animal  is 
capable  of  finding  its  own  food  and  shelter  and  of 
avoiding  all  ordinary  danger,  there  is  much  de- 
pendence, one  upon  another,  among  the  little 
creatures  of  fur  and  feathers. 

The  first  instinct  of  a  gray  squirrel,  at  the 
approach  of  winter,  is  to  seek  out  a  deep,  warm, 
hollow  limb,  or  trunk.  Nowadays,  however,  these 
are  not  to  be  found  in  every  grove.  The  preoepts 
of  modern  forestry  decree  that  all  such  unsightly 
places  must  be  filled  with  cement  and  creosote  and 
well  sealed  against  the  entrance  of  rain  and  snow. 
When  hollows  are  not  available,  these  hardy  squir- 
rels prepare  their  winter  home  in  another  way. 
Before  the  leaves  have  begun  to  loosen  on  their 
stalks,  the  little  creatures  set  to  work.  The  crows 
have  long  since  deserted  their  rough  nest  of  sticks 
in  the  top  of  some  tall  tree,  and  now  the  squirrels 
come,  investigate,  and  adopt  the  forsaken  bird's- 
nest  as  the  foundation  of  their  home.  The  sticks 
are  pressed  more  tightly  together,  all  interstices 
filled  up,  and  then  a  superstructure  of  leafy  twigs 
is  woven  overhead  and  all  around.  The  leaves  on 

46 


TENANTS  OF  WINTER  BIRDS'  NESTS       47 

these  twigs,  killed  before  their  time,  do  not  fall; 
and  when  the  branches  of  the  tree  become  bare, 
there  remains  in  one  of  the  uppermost  crotches  a 
big  ball  of  leaves, — rain  and  snow  proof,  with  a 
tiny  entrance  at  one  side. 

On  a  stormy  mid-winter  afternoon  we  stand 
beneath  the  tree  and,  through  the  snowflakes 
driven  past  by  the  howling  gale,  we  catch  glimpses 
of  the  nest  swaying  high  in  air.  Far  over  it 
leans,  as  the  branches  are  whipped  and  bent  by 
the  wind,  and  yet  so  cunningly  is  it  wrought  that 
never  a  twig  or  leaf  loosens.  We  can  imagine  the 
pair  of  little  shadow-tails  within,  sleeping  fear- 
lessly throughout  all  the  coming  night. 

But  the  sleep  of  the  gray  squirrel  is  a  healthy 
and  a  natural  one,  not  the  half-dead  trance  of 
hibernation;  and  early  next  morning  their  sharp 
eyes  appear  at  the  entrance  of  their  home  and 
they  are  out  and  off  through  tHe  tree-top  path 
which  only  their  feet  can  traverse.  Down  the 
snowy  trunks  they  come  with  a  rush,  and  with 
strong,  clean  bounds  they  head  unerringly  for 
their  little  caches  of  nuts.  Their  provender  is 
hidden  away  among  the  dried  leaves,  and  when 
they  want  a  nibble  of  nut  or  acorn  they  make  their 
way,  by  some  mysterious  sense,  even  through 
three  feet  of  snow,  down  to  the  bit  of  food  which, 
months  before,  they  patted  out  of  sight  among  the 
moss  and  leaves. 

It  would  seem  that  some  exact  sub-conscious 


48  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

sense  of  locality  would  be  a  more  probable  solu- 
tion of  this  feat  than  the  sense  of  smell,  however 
keenly  developed,  when  we  consider  that  dozens 
of  nuts  may  be  hidden  or  buried  in  close  proximity 
to  the  one  sought  by  the  squirrel. 

Even  though  the  birds  seem  to  have  vanished 
from  the  earth,  and  every  mammal  be  deeply 
buried  in  its  long  sleep,  no  winter's  walk  need  be 
barren  of  interest.  A  suggestion  worth  trying 
would  be  to  choose  a  certain  area  of  saplings  and 
underbrush  and  proceed  systematically  to  fathom 
every  cause  which  has  prevented  the  few  stray 
leaves  still  upon  their  stalks  from  falling  with 
their  many  brethren  now  buried  beneath  the  snow. 

The  encircling  silken  bonds  of  Promethea  and 
Cynthia  cocoons  will  account  for  some ;  others  will 
puzzle  us  until  we  have  found  the  traces  of  some 
insect  foe,  whose  girdling  has  killed  the  twig  and 
thus  prevented  the  leaf  from  falling  at  the  usual 
time;  some  may  be  simply  mechanical  causes, 
where  a  broken  twig  crotch  has  fallen  athwart 
another  stem  in  the  course  of  its  downward  fall. 
Then  there  is  the  pitiful  remnant  of  a  last  sum- 
mer's bird's-nest,  with  a  mere  skeleton  of  a  floor 
all  but  disintegrated. 

But  occasionally  a  substantial  ball  of  dead 
leaves  will  be  noticed,  swung  amid  a  tangle  of 
brier.  No  accident  lodged  these,  nor  did  any 
insect  have  aught  to  do  with  their  position. 
Examine  carefully  the  mass  of  leaves  and  you 


TENANTS  OF  WINTER  BIRDS'  NESTS       49 

will  find  a  replica  of  the  gray  squirrel's  nest,  only, 
of  course,  much  smaller.  This  handiwork  of  the 
white-footed  or  deer  mouse  can  be  found  in  almost 
every  field  or  tangle  of  undergrowth ;  the  nest  of 
a  field  sparrow  or  catbird  being  used  as  a  founda- 
tion and  thickly  covered  over  and  tightly  thatched 
with  leaves.  Now  and  then,  even  in  mid-winter, 
we  may  find  the  owner  at  home,  and  as  the  weasel 
is  the  most  bloodthirsty,  so  the  deer  mouse  is  the 
most  beautiful  and  gentle  of  all  the  fur-coated  folk 
of  our  woods.  "With  his  coat  of  white  and  pale 
golden  brown  and  his  great  black,  lustrous  eyes, 
and  his  timid,  trusting  ways,  he  is  altogether 
lovable. 

He  spends  the  late  summer  and  early  autumn 
in  his  tangle-hung  home,  but  in  winter  he  gen- 
erally selects  a  snug  hollow  log,  or  some  cavity 
in  the  earth.  Here  he  makes  a  round  nest  of  fine 
grass  and  upon  a  couch  of  thistledown  he  sleeps 
in  peace,  now  and  then  waking  to  partake  of  the 
little  hoard  of  nuts  which  he  has  gathered,  or  he 
may  even  dare  to  frolic  about  upon  the  snow  in 
the  cold  winter  moonlight,  leaving  behind  him  no 
trace,  save  the  fairy  tracery  of  his  tiny  footprints. 

Wee,  sleekit,  cow'rin',  tim'rous  beastie, 
0,  what  a  panic's  in  thy  breastie! 
Thou  need  na  start  awa  sae  hasty, 

Wi'  bickering  brattle! 
I  wad  be  laith  to  rin  an'  chase  thee, 
Wi'  murd'ring  prattle! 

ROBERT  BURNS. 


WINTER  HOLES 

E  decayed  hollows  which  we  have  men- 

JL  tioned  as  so  often  productive  of  little  owls 
have  their,  possibilities  by  no  means  exhausted  by 
one  visit.  The  disturbed  owl  may  take  himself 
elsewhere,  after  being  so  unceremoniously  dis- 
turbed; but  there  are  roving,  tramp-like  charac- 
ters, with  dispositions  taking  them  here  and  there 
through  the  winter  nights,  to  whom,  at  break  of 
day,  a  hole  is  ever  a  sought-for  haven. 

So  do  not  put  your  hand  too  recklessly  into  an 
owl  hole,  for  a  hiss  and  a  sudden  nip  may  show 
that  an  opossum  has  taken  up  his  quarters  there. 
If  you  must,  pull  him  out  by  his  squirming,  naked 
tail,  but  do  not  carry  him  home,  as  he  makes  a 
poor  pet,  and  between  hen-house  traps  and  irate 
farmers,  he  has  good  reason,  in  this  part  of  the 
country  at  least,  to  be  short  tempered. 

Of  course  the  birds  '-nests  are  all  deserted  now, 
but  do  not  be  too  sure  of  the  woodpeckers'  holes. 
The  little  downy  and  his  larger  cousin,  the  hairy 
woodpecker,  often  spend  the  winter  nights  snug 
within  deep  cavities  which  they  have  hollowed  out, 
each  bird  for  itself.  I  have  never  known  a  pair 
to  share  one  of  these  shelters. 

Sometimes,  in  pulling  off  the  loose  bark  from  a 
decayed  stump,  several  dry,  flattened  scales  will 

50 


WINTER  HOLES  51 

fall  out  upon  the  snow  among  the  debris  of  wood 
and  dead  leaves.  Hold  them  close  in  the  warm 
palm  of  your  hand  for  a  time  and  the  dried  bits 
will  quiver,  the  sides  partly  separate,  and  behold ! 
you  have  brought  back  to  life  a  beautiful 
Euvanessa,  or  mourning-cloak  butterfly.  Lay  it 
upon  the  snow  and  soon  the  awakened  life  will 
ebb  away  and  it  will  again  be  stiff,  as  in  death.  If 
you  wish,  take  it  home,  and  you  may  warm  it  into 
activity,  feed  it  upon  a  drop  of  syrup  and  freeze 
it  again  at  will.  Sometimes  six  or  eight  of  these 
insects  may  be  found  sheltered  under  the  bark  of 
a  single  stump,  or  in  a  hollow  beneath  a  stone. 
Several  species  share  this  habit  of  hibernating 
throughout  the  winter. 

Look  carefully  in  old,  deserted  sheds,  in  half- 
sheltered  hollows  of  trees,  or  in  deep  crevice- 
caverns  in  rocks,  and  you  may  some  day  spy  one 
of  the  strangest  of  our  woodfolk.  A  poor  little 
shrivelled  bundle  of  fur,  tight-clasped  in  its  own 
skinny  fingers,  with  no  more  appearance  of  life 
in  its  frozen  body  than  if  it  were  a  mummy  from 
an  Egyptian  tomb;  such  is  the  figure  that  will 
meet  your  eye  when  you  chance  upon  a  bat  in  the 
deep  trance  of  its  winter's  hibernation.  Often 
you  will  find  six  or  a  dozen  of  these  stiffened 
forms  clinging  close  together,  head  downward. 

As  in  the  case  of  the  sleeping  butterfly,  carry 
one  of  the  bats  to  your  warm  room  and  place  him 
in  a  bird-cage,  hanging  him  up  on  the  top  wires 


62  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

by  his  toes,  with  his  head  downward.  The  inverted 
position  of  these  strange  little  beings  always 
brings  to  mind  some  of  the  experiences  of  Gulliver, 
and  indeed  the  life  of  a  bat  is  more  wonderful 
than  any  fairy  tale. 

Probably  the  knowledge  of  bats  which  most  of 
us  possess  is  chiefly  derived  from  the  imagina- 
tions of  artists  and  poets,  who,  unlike  the  Chinese, 
do  not  look  upon  these  creatures  with  much 
favour,  generally  symbolising  them  in  connection 
with  passages  and  pictures  which  relate  to  the 
infernal  regions.  All  of  which  is  entirely  unjust. 
Their  nocturnal  habits  and  our  consequent  igno- 
rance of  their  characteristics  are  the  only  causes 
which  can  account  for  their  being  associated  with 
the  realm  of  Satan.  In  some  places  bats  are  called 
flittermice,  but  they  are  more  nearly  related  to 
moles,  shrews,  and  other  insect-eaters  than  they 
are  to  mice.  If  we  look  at  the  skeleton  of  an  ani- 
mal which  walks  or  hops  we  will  notice  that  its 
hind  limbs  are  much  the  stronger,  and  that  the 
girdle  which  connects  these  with  the  backbone  is 
composed  of  strong  and  heavy  bones.  In  bats  a 
reverse  condition  is  found;  the  breast  girdle,  or 
bones  corresponding  to  our  collar  bones  and 
shoulder  blades,  are  greatly  developed.  This,  as 
in  birds,  is,  of  course,  an  adaptation  to  give  sur- 
face for  the  attachment  of  the  great  propelling 
muscles  of  the  wings. 

Although  the  hand  of  a  bat  is  so  strangely 


WINTER  HOLES  53 

altered,  yet,  as  we  shall  see  if  we  look  at  our  cap- 
tive specimen,  it  has  five  fingers,  as  we  have,  four 
of  which  are  very  long  and  thin,  and  the  webs,  of 
which  we  have  a  very  noticeable  trace  in  our  own 
hands,  stretch  from  finger-tip  to  finger-tip,  and  to 
the  body  and  even  down  each  leg,  ending  squarely 
near  the  ankle,  thus  giving  the  creature  the  absurd 
appearance  of  having  on  a  very  broad,  baggy  pair 
of  trousers. 

When  thoroughly  warmed  up,  our  bat  will  soon 
start  on  a  tour  of  inspection  of  his  cage.  He  steps 
rapidly  from  one  wire  to  another,  sometimes  hook- 
ing on  with  all  five  toes,  but  generally  with  four 
or  three.  There  seems  to  be  little  power  in  these 
toes,  except  of  remaining  bent  in  a  hooked  posi- 
tion; for  when  our  bat  stops  and  draws  up  one 
foot  to  scratch  the  head,  the  claws  are  merely 
jerked  through  the  fur  by  motions  of  the  whole 
leg,  not  by  individual  movements  of  the  separate 
toes.  In  this  motion  we  notice,  for  the  first  time, 
that  the  legs  and  feet  grow  in  a  kind  of  "spread 
eagle"  position,  making  the  knees  point  backward, 
in  the  same  direction  as  the  elbows. 

IWe  must  stop  a  moment  to  admire  the  beautiful 
soft  fur,  a  golden  brown  in  colour,  with  part  of 
the  back  nearly  black.  The  tiny  inverted  face  is 
full  of  expression,  the  bead-like  eyes  gleaming 
brightly  from  out  of  their  furry  bed.  The  small 
moist  nostrils  are  constantly  wrinkling  and  snif- 
fling, and  the  large  size  of  the  alert  ears  shows 


54  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

how  much  their  owner  depends  upon  them  for 
information.  If  we  suddenly  move  up  closer  to 
the  wires,  the  bat  opens  both  wings  owl-like,  in  a 
most  threatening  manner;  but  if  we  make  still 
more  hostile  motions  the  creature  retreats  as 
hastily  as  it  can,  changing  its  method  of  progress 
to  an  all-fours,  sloth-like  gait,  the  long  free  thumb 
of  each  hand  grasping  wire  after  wire  and  doing 
most  of  the  leverage,  the  hind  legs  following 
passively. 

When  at  what  he  judges  a  safe  distance  he  again 
hangs  pendent,  bending  his  head  back  to  look 
earnestly  at  us.  Soon  the  half -opened  wings  are 
closed  and  brought  close  to  the  shoulders,  and  in 
this,  the  usual  resting  position,  the  large  claws  of 
the  thumbs  rest  on  the  breast  in  little  furrows 
which  they  have  worn  in  the  fur. 

Soon  drowsiness  comes  on  and  a  long  elaborate 
yawn  is  given,  showing  the  many  small  needle- 
like  teeth  and  the  broad  red  tongue,  which  curls 
outward  to  a  surprising  length.  Then  comes  the 
most  curious  process  of  all.  Drawing  up  one  leg, 
the  little  creature  deliberately  wraps  one  hand 
with  its  clinging  web  around  the  leg  and  under 
the  arms,  and  then  draws  the  other  wing  straight 
across  the  body,  holds  it  there  a  moment,  while  it 
takes  a  last  look  in  all  directions.  Then  lifting  its 
fingers  slightly,  it  bends  its  head  and  wraps  all  in 
the  full-spread  web.  It  is  most  ludicrously  like  a 
tragedian,  acting  the  death  scene  in  "Julius 


WINTER  HOLES  55 

Caesar,"  and  it  loses  nothing  in  repetition;  for 
each  time  the  little  animal  thus  draws  its  winding 
sheet  about  its  body,  one  is  forced  to  smile  as  he 
thinks  of  the  absurd  resemblance. 

But  all  this  and  much  more  you  will  see  for 
yourself,  if  you  are  so  fortunate  as  to  discover  the 
hiding-place  of  the  hibernating  bat. 

Our  little  brown  bat  is  a  most  excellent  mother, 
and  when  in  summer  she  starts  out  on  her  noc- 
turnal hunts  she  takes  her  tiny  baby  bat  with 
her.  The  weird  little  creature  wraps  his  long 
fingers  about  his  mother's  neck  and  off  they  go. 
"When  two  young  are  born,  the  father  bat  is  said 
sometimes  to  assume  entire  control  of  one. 

After  we  come  to  know  more  of  the  admirable 
family  traits  of  the  fledermaus — its  musical 
German  name — we  shall  willingly  defend  it  from 
the  calumny  which  for  thousands  of  years  has  been 
heaped  upon  it. 

Hibernation  is  a  strange  phenomenon,  and  one 
which  is  but  little  understood.  If  we  break  into 
the  death-like  trance  for  too  long  a  time,  or  if  we 
do  not  supply  the  right  kind  of  food,  our  captive 
butterflies  and  bats  will  perish.  So  let  us  soon 
freeze  them  up  again  and  place  them  back  in  the 
care  of  old  Nature.  Thus  the  pleasure  is  ours  of 
having  made  them  yield  up  their  secrets,  without 
any  harm  to  them.  Let  us  fancy  that  in  the  spring 
they  may  remember  us  only  as  a  strange  dream 
which  has  come  to  them  during  their  long  sleep. 


MARCH 


FEATHERED  PIONEERS 

IN  the  annual  war  of  the  seasons,  March  is  the 
time  of  the  most  bitterly  contested  battles. 
But  we — and  very  likely  the  birds — can  look  ahead 
and  realise  what  the  final  outcome  will  invariably 
be,  and,  our  sympathies  being  on  the  winning  side, 
every  advance  of  spring's  outposts  gladdens  our 
hearts.  But  winter  is  a  stubborn  foe,  and  some- 
times his  snow  and  icicle  battalions  will  not  give 
way  a  foot.  Though  by  day  the  sun's  fierce 
attack  may  drench  the  earth  with  the  watery 
blood  of  the  ice  legions,  yet  at  night,  silently 
and  grimly,  new  reserves  of  cold  repair  the 
damage. 

Our  winter  visitors  are  still  in  force.  Amid  the 
stinging  cold  the  wee  brown  form  of  a  winter  wren 
will  dodge  round  a  brush  pile — a  tiny  bundle  of 
energy  which  defies  all  chill  winds  and  which 
resolves  bug  chrysalides  and  frozen  insects  into 
a  marvellous  activity.  Other  little  birds,  as  small 
as  the  wren,  call  to  us  from  the  pines  and  cedars — 
golden-crowned  kinglets,  olive-green  of  body, 
while  on  their  heads  burns  a  crest  of  orange  and 
gold. 

"When  a  good-sized  brown  bird  flies  up  before 
you,  showing  a  flash  of  white  on  his  rump,  you 


60  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

may  know  him  for  the  flicker,  the  most  unwood- 
pecker-like  of  his  family.  He  is  more  or  less 
deserting  the  tree-climbing  method  for  ground 
feeding,  and  if  you  watch  him  you  will  see  many 
habits  which  his  new  mode  of  life  is  teaching  him. 

Even  in  the  most  wintry  of  Marches  some  warm, 
thawing  days  are  sure  to  be  thrown  in  between 
storms,  and  nothing,  not  even  pussy  willows  and 
the  skunk  cabbage,  yield  more  quickly  to  the  mel- 
lowing influence  than  do  the  birds — sympathetic 
brethren  of  ours  that  they  are.  Hardly  has  the 
sunniest  icicle  begun  to  drop  tears,  when  a  song 
sparrow  flits  to  the  top  of  a  bush,  clears  his  throat 
with  sharp  chirps  and  shouts  as  loud  as  he  can: 
* '  Hip  I  Hip !  Hip !  Hurrah— ! ' '  Even  more  boreal 
visitors  feel  the  new  influence,  and  tree  and  fox 
sparrows  warble  sweetly.  But  the  bluebird's  note 
will  always  be  spring's  dearest  herald.  When  this 
soft,  mellow  sound  floats  from  the  nearest  fence 
post,  it  seems  to  thaw  something  out  of  our  ears ; 
from  this  instant  winter  seems  on  the  defensive ; 
the  crisis  has  come  and  gone  in  an  instant,  in  a 
single  vibration  of  the  air. 

Bright  colours  are  still  scarce  among  our  birds, 
but  another  blue  form  may  occasionally  pass  us, 
for  blue  jays  are  more  noticeable  now  than  at  any 
other  time  of  the  year.  Although  not  by  any 
means  a  rare  bird,  with  us  jays  are  shy  and  wary. 
In  Florida  their  southern  cousins  are  as  familiar 
as  robins,  without  a  trace  of  fear  of  mankind. 


FEATHERED  PIONEERS  Cl 

What  curious  notes  our  blue  jays  have — a  creak- 
ing, wheedling,  rasping  medley  of  sounds  coming 
through  the  leafless  branches.  At  this  time  of 
year  they  love  acorns  and  nuts,  but  in  the  spring 
"  their  fancy  turns  to  thoughts  of"  eggs  and  young 
nestlings,  and  they  are  accordingly  hated  by  the 
small  birds.  Nevertheless  no  bird  is  quicker  to 
shout  and  scream  "  Thief!  Robber  I"  at  some 
harmless  little  owl  than  are  these  blue  and  white 
rascals. 

You  may  seek  in  vain  to  discover  the  first  sign 
of  nesting  among  the  birds.  Scarcely  has  winter 
set  in  in  earnest,  you  will  think,  when  the  tiger- 
eyed  one  of  the  woods — the  great  horned  owl — 
will  have  drifted  up  to  some  old  hawk's  nest,  and 
laid  her  white  spheres  fairly  in  the  snow.  When 
you  discover  her  " horns"  above  the  nest  lining  of 
dried  leaves,  you  may  find  that  her  fuzzy  young 
owls  are  already  hatched.  But  these  owls  are  an 
exception,  and  no  other  bird  in  our  lattitude  cares 
to  risk  the  dangers  of  late  February  or  early 
March. 

March  is  sometimes  a  woodpecker  month,  and 
almost  any  day  one  is  very  likely  to  see,  besides 
the  flicker,  the  hairy  or  downy  woodpecker.  The 
latter  two  are  almost  counterparts  of  each  other, 
although  the  downy  is  the  more  common.  They 
hammer  cheerfully  upon  the  sounding  boards 
which  Nature  has  provided  for  them,  striking  slow 
or  fast,  soft  or  loud,  as  their  humour  dictates. 


62  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

Near  New  York,  a  day  in  March — I  have  found 
it  varying  from  March  8  to  March  12 — is  "crow 
day."  Now  the  winter  roosts  apparently  break 
up,  and  all  day  flocks  of  crows,  sometimes  thou- 
sands upon  thousands  of  them,  pass  to  the  north- 
ward. If  the  day  is  quiet  and  spring-like,  they 
fly  very  high,  black  motes  silhouetted  against  the 
blue, — but  if  the  day  is  a  "March  day,"  with 
whistling,  howling  winds,  then  the  black  fellows 
fly  close  to  earth,  rising  just  enough  to  clear 
bushes  and  trees,  and  taking  leeward  advantage 
of  every  protection.  For  days  after,  many  crows 
pass,  but  never  so  many  as  on  the  first  day,  when 
crow  law,  or  crow  instinct,  passes  the  word,  we 
know  not  how,  which  is  obeyed  by  all. 

For  miles  around  not  a  drop  of  water  may  be 
found;  it  seems  as  if  every  pool  and  lake  were 
solid  to  the  bottom,  and  yet,  when  we  see  a  large 
bird,  with  goose-like  body,  long  neck  and  long, 
pointed  beak,  flying  like  a  bullet  of  steel  through 
the  sky,  we  may  be  sure  that  there  is  open  water 
to  the  northward,  for  a  loon  never  makes  a  mis- 
take. When  the  first  pioneer  of  these  hardy  birds 
passes,  he  knows  that  somewhere  beyond  us  fish 
can  be  caught.  If  we  wonder  where  he  has  spent 
the  long  winter  months,  we  should  take  a  steamer 
to  Florida.  Out  on  the  ocean,  sometimes  a  hun- 
dred miles  or  more  from  land,  many  of  these  birds 
make  their  winter  home.  When  the  bow  of  the 
steamer  bears  down  upon  one,  the  bird  half 


FEATHERED  PIONEERS  63 

spreads  its  wings,  then  closes  them  quickly,  and 
sinks  out  of  sight  in  the  green  depths,  not  to  reap- 
pear until  the  steamer  has  passed,  when  he  looks 
after  us  and  utters  his  mocking  laugh.  Here  he 
will  float  until  the  time  comes  for  him  to  go  north. 
We  love  the  brave  fellow,  remembering  him  in  his 
home  among  the  lakes  of  Canada ;  but  we  tremble 
for  him  when  we  think  of  the  terrible  storm  waves 
which  he  must  outride,  and  the  sneering  sharks 
which  must  sometimes  spy  him.  What  a  story  he 
could  tell  of  his  life  among  the  phalaropes  and 
jelly-fishes ! 

Meadow  larks  are  in  flocks  in  March,  and  as 
their  yellow  breasts,  with  the  central  crescent  of 
black,  rise  from  the  snow-bent  grass,  their  long, 
clear,  vocal  "arrow"  comes  to  us,  piercing  the  air 
like  a  veritable  icicle  of  sound.  When  on  the 
ground  they  are  walkers  like  the  crow. 

As  the  kingfisher  and  loon  appear  to  know  long 
ahead  when  the  first  bit  of  clear  water  will  appear, 
so  the  first  insect  on  the  wing  seems  to  be  antici- 
pated by  a  feathered  flycatcher.  Early  some 
morning,  when  the  wondrous  Northern  Lights  are 
still  playing  across  the  heavens,  a  small  voice 
may  make  all  the  surroundings  seem  incongruous. 
Frosty  air,  rimmed  tree-trunks,  naked  branches, 
aurora — all  seem  as  unreal  as  stage  properties, 
when  phoe-be!  comes  to  our  ears.  Yes,  there  is 
the  little  dark-feathered,  tail-wagging  fellow, 
hungry  no  doubt,  but  sure  that  when  the  sun 


64  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

warms  up,  Mother  Nature  will  strew  his  aerial 
breakfast-table  with  tiny  gnats, — precocious,  but 
none  the  less  toothsome  for  all  that. 

Hark  'tis  the  bluebird's  venturous  strain 

High  on  the  old  fringed  elm  at  the  gate — 

Sweet-voiced,  valiant  on  the  swaying  bough, 
Alert,  elate, 

Dodging  the  fitful  spits  of  snow, 
New  England's  poet-laureate 

Telling  us  Spring  has  come  again! 

THOMAS  BAILKY  ALDEICH. 


THE  WAYS  OF  MEADOW  MICE 

DAY  after  day  we  may  walk  through  the 
woods  and  fields,  using  our  eyes  as  best  we 
can,  searching  out  every  moving  thing,  following 
up  every  sound, — and  yet  we  touch  only  the  coars- 
est, perceive  only  the  grossest  of  the  life  about 
us.  Tramp  the  same  way  after  a  fall  of  snow  and 
we  are  astonished  at  the  evidences  of  life  of  which 
we  knew  nothing.  Everywhere,  in  and  out  among 
the  reed  stems,  around  the  tree-trunks,  and  in 
wavy  lines  and  spirals  all  about,  runs  the  delicate 
tracery  of  the  meadow  mice  trails.  No  leapers 
these,  as  are  the  white-footed  and  jumping  mice, 
but  short-legged  and  stout  of  body.  Yet  with  all 
their  lack  of  size  and  swiftness,  they  are  untiring 
little  folk,  and  probably  make  long  journeys  from 
their  individual  nests. 

As  far  north  as  Canada  and  west  to  the  Plains 
the  meadow  or  field  mice  are  found,  and  every- 
where they  seem  to  be  happy  and  content.  Most 
of  all,  however,  they  enjoy  the  vicinity  of  water, 
and  a  damp,  half -marshy  meadow  is  a  paradise 
for  them.  No  wonder  their  worst  enemies  are 
known  as  marsh  hawks  and  marsh  owls;  these 
hunters  of  the  daylight  and  the  night  well  know 
where  the  meadow  mice  love  to  play. 

These  mice  are  resourceful  little  beings  and 

65 


66  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

when  danger  threatens  they  will  take  to  the  water 
^without-  hesitation;  and  when  the  nmskrat  has 
gone  the  way  of  the  beaver,  our  ditches  and  ponds 
will  not  be  completely  deserted,  for  the  little 
meadow  mice  will  swim  and  dive  for  many  years 
thereafter. 

Not  only  in  the  meadows  about  our  inland 
streams,  but  within  sound  of  the  breakers  011  the 
seashore,  these  vigorous  bits  of  fur  find  bountiful 
living,  and  it  is  said  that  the  mice  folk  inhabiting 
these  low  salt  marshes  always  know  in  some  mys- 
terious way  when  a  disastrous  high  tide  is  due, 
and  flee  in  time,  so  that  when  the  remorseless 
ripples  lap  higher  and  higher  over  the  wide 
stretches  of  salt  grass,  not  a  mouse  will  be 
drowned.  By  some  delicate  means  of  perception 
all  have  been  notified  in  time,  and  these,  among 
the  least  of  Nature's  children,  have  run  and  scur- 
ried along  their  grassy  paths  to  find  safety  on 
the  higher  ground. 

These  paths  seem  an  invention  of  the  meadow 
mice,  and,  affording  them  a  unique  escape  from 
danger,  they  doubtless,  in  a  great  measure, 
account  for  the  extreme  abundance  of  the  little 
creatures.  When  a  deer  mouse  or  a  chipmunk 
emerges  from  its  hollow  log  or  underground  tun- 
nel, it  must  take  its  chances  in  open  air.  It  may 
dart  along  close  to  the  ground  or  amid  an  im- 
penetrable tangle  of  briers,  but  still  it  is  always 
visible  from  above.  On  the  other  hand,  a  mole, 


THE  WAYS  OF  MEADOW  MICE  67 

pushing  blindly  along  beneath  the  sod,  fears  no 
danger  from  the  hawk  soaring  high  overhead. 

The  method  of  the  meadow  mice  is  between 
these  two :  its  stratum  of  active  life  is  above  the 
mole  and  beneath  the  chipmunk.  Scores  of  sharp 
little  incisor  teeth  are  forever  busy  gnawing  and 
cutting  away  the  tender  grass  and  sprouting 
weeds  in  long  meandering  paths  or  trails  through 
the  meadows.  As  these  paths  are  only  a  mouse- 
breadth  in  width,  the  grasses  at  each  side  lean 
inward,  forming  a  perfect  shelter  of  interlocking 
stems  overhead.  Two  purposes  are  thus  fulfilled : 
a  delicious  succulent  food  is  obtained  and  a  way 
of  escape  is  kept  ever  open.  These  lines  intersect 
and  cross  at  every  conceivable  angle,  and  as  the 
meadow  mice  clan  are  ever  friendly  toward  one 
another,  any  particular  mouse  seems  at  liberty 
to  traverse  these  miles  of  mouse  alleys. 

In  winter,  when  the  snow  lies  deep  upon  the 
ground,  these  same  mice  drive  tunnels  beneath  it, 
leading  to  all  their  favourite  feeding  grounds,  to 
all  the  heavy-seeded  weed  heads,  with  which  the 
bounty  of  Nature  supplies  them.  But  at  night 
these  tunnels  are  deserted  and  boldly  out  upon  the 
snow  come  the  meadow  mice,  chasing  each  other 
over  its  gleaming  surface,  nibbling  the  toothsome 
seeds,  dodging,  or  trying  to  dodge,  the  owl- 
shadows;  living  the  keen,  strenuous,  short,  but 
happy,  life  which  is  that  of  all  the  wild  meadow 
folk. 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

That  wee  bit  heap  o'  leaves  an'  stibbla 
Has  cost  thee  mony  a  weary  nibble ! 
Thou  saw  the  fields  laid  bare  and  waste, 
An'  weary  winter  comin'  fast, 
An'  cosey  here,  beneath  the  blast, 
Thou  thought  to  dwell. 

ROBERT  BURNS. 


PROBLEMS  OF  BIRD  LIFE 

THE  principal  problems  which  birds,  and 
indeed  all  other  creatures,  have  to  solve, 
have  been  well  stated  to  be — Food,  Safety,  and 
Reproduction.  In  regard  to  safety,  or  the  art  of 
escaping  danger,  we  are  all  familiar  with  the  rav- 
ages which  hawks,  owls,  foxes,  and  even  red  squir- 
rels commit  among  the  lesser  feathered  creatures, 
but  there  are  other  dangers  which  few  of  us 
suspect. 

Of  all  creatures  birds  are  perhaps  the  most 
exempt  from  liability  to  accident,  yet  they  not 
infrequently  lose  their  lives  in  most  unexpected 
ways.  Once  above  trees  and  buildings,  they  have 
the  whole  upper  air  free  of  every  obstacle,  and 
though  their  flight  sometimes  equals  the  speed  of 
a  railroad  train,  they  have  little  to  fear  when  well 
above  the  ground.  Collision  with  other  birds 
seems  scarcely  possible,  although  it  sometimes 
does  occur.  "When  a  covey  of  quail  is  flushed, 
occasionally  two  birds  will  collide,  at  times  meet- 
ing with  such  force  that  both  are  stunned.  Fly- 
catchers darting  at  the  same  insect  will  now  and 
then  come  together,  but  not  hard  enough  to  injure 
either  bird. 

Even  the  smallest  and  most  wonderful  of  all 


70  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

flyers,  the  hummingbird,  may  come  to  grief  in  acci- 
dental ways.  I  have  seen  one  entangled  in  a  bur- 
dock burr,  its  tiny  feathers  fast  locked  into  the 
countless  hooks,  and  again  I  have  found  the  body 
of  one  of  these  little  birds  with  its  bill  fastened  in 
a  spiral  tendril  of  a  grapevine,  trapped  in  some 
unknown  way. 

Young  phoebes  sometimes  become  entangled  in 
the  horsehairs  which  are  used  in  the  lining  of 
their  nest.  When  they  are  old  enough  to  fly  and 
attempt  to  leave,  they  are  held  prisoners  or  left 
dangling  from  the  nest.  When  mink  traps  are  set 
in  the  snow  in  winter,  owls  frequently  fall  victims, 
mice  being  scarce  and  the  bait  tempting. 

Lighthouses  are  perhaps  the  cause  of  more  acci- 
dents to  birds  than  are  any  of  the  other  obstacles 
which  they  encounter  on  their  nocturnal  migra- 
tions north  and  south.  Many  hundreds  of  birds 
are  sometimes  found  dead  at  the  base  of  these 
structures.  The  sudden  bright  glare  is  so  confus- 
ing and  blinding,  as  they  shoot  from  the  intense 
darkness  into  its  circle  of  radiance,  that  they  are 
completely  bewildered  and  dash  headlong  against 
the  thick  panes  of  glass.  Telegraph  wires  are 
another  menace  to  low-flying  birds,  especially 
those  which,  like  quail  and  woodcock,  enjoy  a 
whirlwind  flight,  and  attain  great  speed  within  a 
few  yards.  Such  birds  have  been  found  almost 
cut  in  two  by  the  force  with  which  they  struck  the 
wire. 


PROBLEMS  OF  BIRD  LIFE  71 

/ 

The  elements  frequently  catch  birds  unaware 
and  overpower  them.  A  sudden  wind  or  storm 
will  drive  coast-flying  birds  hundreds  of  miles  out 
to  sea,  and  oceanic  birds  may  be  blown  as  far 
inland.  Hurricanes  in  the  West  Indies  are  said  to 
cause  the  death  of  innumerable  birds,  as  well  as 
of  other  creatures.  From  such  a  cause  small 
islands  are  known  to  have  become  completely  de- 
populated of  their  feathered  inhabitants.  Vio- 
lent hailstorms,  coming  in  warm  weather  without 
warning,  are  quite  common  agents  in  the  destruc- 
tion of  birds,  and  in  a  city  thousands  of  English 
sparrows  have  been  stricken  during  such  a  storm. 
After  a  violent  storm  of  wet  snow  in  the  middle 
West,  myriads  of  Lapland  longspurs  were  once 
found  dead  in  the  streets  and  suburbs  of  several 
villages.  On  the  surface  of  two  small  lakes,  a 
conservative  estimate  of  the  dead  birds  was  a  mil- 
lion and  a  half ! 

The  routes  which  birds  follow  in  migrating 
north  and  south  sometimes  extend  over  consider- 
able stretches  of  water,  as  across  the  Caribbean 
Sea,  but  the  only  birds  which  voluntarily  brave 
the  dangers  of  the  open  ocean  are  those  which, 
from  ability  to  swim,  or  great  power  of  flight,  can 
trust  themselves  far  away  from  land.  Not  infre- 
quently a  storm  will  drive  birds  away  from  the 
land  and  carry  them  over  immense  distances,  and 
this  accounts  for  the  occasional  appearance  of 
land  birds  near  vessels  far  out  at  sea.  Overcome 


72  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

with  fatigue,  they  perch  for  hours  in  the  rigging 
before  taking  flight  in  the  direction  of  the  nearest 
land,  or,  desperate  from  hunger,  they  fly  fear- 
lessly down  to  the  deck,  where  food  and  water  are 
seldom  refused  them. 

Small  events  like  these  are  welcome  breaks  in 
the  monotony  of  a  long  ocean  voyage,  but  are  soon 
forgotten  at  the  end  of  the  trip. 

Two  of  these  ocean  waifs  were  once  brought  to 
me.  One  was  a  young  European  heron  which  flew 
on  board  a  vessel  when  it  was  about  two  hundred 
and  five  miles  southeast  of  the  southern  extremity 
of  India.  A  storm  must  have  driven  the  bird  sea- 
ward, as  there  is  no  migration  route  near  thjs 
locality. 

The  second  bird  was  a  European  turtle  dove 
which  was  captured  not  less  than  seven  hundred 
and  fifty  miles  from  the  nearest  land — Ireland. 
When  caught  it  was  in  an  exhausted  condition, 
but  it  quickly  recovered  and  soon  lost  all  signs  of 
the  buffeting  of  the  storm.  The  turtle  dove 
migrates  northward  to  the  British  Islands  about 
the  first  of  May,  but  as  this  bird  was  captured  on 
May  17th,  it  was  not  migrating,  but,  caught  by  a 
gust  of  wind,  was  probably  blown  away  from  the 
land.  The  force  of  the  storm  would  then  drive  it 
mile  after  mile,  allowing  it  no  chance  of  controll- 
ing the  direction  of  its  flight,  but,  from  the  very 
velocity,  making  it  easy  for  the  bird  to  maintain 
its  equilibrium. 


PROBLEMS  OF  BIRD  LIFE  73 

Hundreds  of  birds  must  perish  when  left  by 
storms  far  out  at  sea,  and  the  infinitely  small 
chance  of  encountering  a  vessel  or  other  resting- 
place  makes  a  bird  which  has  passed  through  such 
an  experience  and  survived,  interesting  indeed. 

In  winter  ruffed  grouse  have  a  habit  of  burrow- 
ing deep  beneath  the  snow  and  letting  the  storm 
shut  them  in.  In  this  warm,  cosey  retreat  they 
spend  the  night,  their  breath  making  its  way  out 
through  the  loosely  packed  crystals.  But  when  a 
cold  rain  sets  in  during  the  night,  this  becomes  a 
fatal  trap,  an  impenetrable  crust  cutting  off  their 
means  of  escape. 

Ducks,  when  collected  about  a  small  open  place 
in  an  ice-covered  pond,  diving  for  the  tender  roots 
on  which  they  feed,  sometimes  become  confused 
and  drown  before  they  find  their  way  out.  They 
have  been  seen  frozen  into  the  ice  by  hundreds, 
sitting  there  helplessly,  and  fortunate  if  the  sun, 
with  its  thawing  power,  releases  them  before  they 
are  discovered  by  marauding  hawks  or  foxes. 

In  connection  with  their  food  supply  the 
greatest  enemy  of  birds  is  ice,  and  when  a  winter 
rain  ends  with  a  cold  snap,  and  every  twig  and 
seed  is  encased  in  a  transparent  armour  of  ice, 
then  starvation  stalks  close  to  all  the  feathered 
kindred.  Then  is  the  time  to  scatter  crumbs  and 
grain  broadcast,  to  nail  bones  and  suet  to  the  tree- 
trunks  and  so  awaken  hope  and  life  in  the  shiver- 
ing little  forms.  If  a  bird  has  food  in  abundance, 


74  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

it  little  fears  the  cold.  I  have  kept  parrakeets  out 
through  the  blizzards  and  storms  of  a  severe  win- 
ter, seeing  them  play  and  frolic  in  the  snow  as  if 
their  natural  home  were  an  arctic  tundra,  instead 
of  a  tropical  forest. 

A  friend  of  birds  once  planted  many  sprouts  of 
wild  honeysuckle  about  his  porch,  and  the  follow- 
ing summer  two  pairs  of  hummingbirds  built  their 
nests  in  near-by  apple  trees;  he  transplanted 
quantities  of  living  woodbine  to  the  garden  fences, 
and  when  the  robins  returned  in  the  spring,  after 
having  remained  late  the  previous  autumn  feeding 
on  the  succulent  bunches  of  berries,  no  fewer  than 
ten  pairs  nested  on  and  about  the  porch  and  yard. 

So  my  text  of  this,  as  of  many  other  weeks  is, — 
study  the  food  habits  of  the  birds  and  stock  your 
waste  places  with  their  favourite  berry  or  vine. 
Your  labour  will  be  repaid  a  hundredfold  in  song 
and  in  the  society  of  the  little  winged  comrades. 

Worn  is  the  winter  rug  of  white, 
And  in  the  snow-bare  spots  once  more, 
Glimpses  of  faint  green  grass  in  sight, — 
Spring's  footprints  on  the  floor. 
Spring  here — by  what  magician's  touch? 
'Twas  winter  scarce  an  hour  ago. 
And  yet  I  should  have  guessed  as  much, — 
Those  footprints  in  the  snow! 

FRANK:  DEMPSTER  S  HERMAN. 


DWELLERS  IN  THE  DUST 

TO  many  of  us  the  differences  between  a  rep- 
tile and  a  batrachian  are  unknown.  Even  if 
we  have  learned  that  these  interesting  creatures 
are  well  worth  studying  and  that  they  possess 
few  or  none  of  the  unpleasant  characteristics 
usually  attributed  to  them,  still  we  are  apt  to 
speak  of  having  seen  a  lizard  in  the  water  at  the 
pond's  edge,  or  of  having  heard  a  reptile  croak- 
ing near  the  march.  To  avoid  such  mistakes,  one 
need  only  remember  that  reptiles  are  covered  with 
scales  and  that  batrachians  have  smooth  skins. 

Our  walks  will  become  more  and  more  interest- 
ing as  we  spread  our  interest  over  a  wider  field, 
not  confining  our  observations  to  birds  and  mam- 
mals alone,  but  including  members  of  the  two 
equally  distinctive  classes  of  animals  mentioned 
above.  The  batrachians,  in  the  northeastern 
part  of  our  country,  include  the  salamanders 
and  newts,  the  frogs  and  toads,  while  as  reptiles 
we  number  lizards,  turtles,  and  snakes. 

Lizards  are  creatures  of  the  tropics  and  only 
two  small  species  are  found  in  our  vicinity,  and 
these  occur  but  rarely.  Snakes,  however,  are  more 
abundant,  and,  besides  the  rare  poisonous  copper- 
head and  rattlesnake,  careful  search  will  reveal  a 

75 


7«  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

dozen  harmless  species,  the  commonest,  of  course, 
being  the  garter  snake  and  its  near  relative  the 
ribbon  snake. 

About  this  time  of  the  year  snakes  begin  to  feel 
the  thawing  effect  of  the  sun's  rays  and  to  stir  in 
their  long  winter  hibernation.  Sometimes  we  will 
come  upon  a  ball  of  six  or  eight  intertwined 
snakes,  which,  if  they  are  still  frozen  up,  will  lie 
motionless  upon  the  ground.  But  when  spring 
finally  unclasps  the  seal  which  has  been  put  upon 
tree  and  ground,  these  reptiles  stretch  themselves 
full  length  upon  some  exposed  stone,  where  they 
lie  basking  in  the  sun. 

The  process  of  shedding  the  skin  soon  begins ; 
getting  clear  of  the  head  part,  eye-scales  and  all, 
the  serpent  slowly  wriggles  its  way  forward, 
escaping  from  the  old  skin  as  a  finger  is  drawn 
from  a  glove.  At  last  it  crawls  away,  bright  and 
shining  in  its  new  scaly  coat,  leaving  behind  it  a 
spectral  likeness  of  itself,  which  slowly  sinks  and 
disintegrates  amid  the  dead  leaves  and  moss,  or, 
later  in  the  year,  it  may  perhaps  be  discovered  by 
some  crested  flycatcher  and  carried  off  to  be  added 
to  its  nesting  material. 

When  the  broods  of  twenty  to  thirty  young 
garter  snakes  start  out  in  life  to  hunt  for  them- 
selves, then  woe  to  the  earthworms,  for  it  is  upon 
them  that  the  little  serpents  chiefly  feed. 

Six  or  seven  of  our  native  species  of  snakes  lay 
eggs,  usually  depositing  them  under  the  bark  of 


DWELLERS  IN  THE  DUST  77 

rotten  logs,  or  in  similar  places,  where  they  are 
left  to  hatch  by  the  heat  of  the  sun  or  by  that  of 
the  decaying  vegetation.  It  is  interesting  to  gather 
these  leathery  shelled  eggs  and  watch  them  hatch, 
and  it  is  surprising  how  similar  to  each  other 
some  of  the  various  species  are  when  they  emerge 
from  the  shelL 


APRIL 


SPRING  SONGSTEKS 

EARLY  April  sees  the  last  contest  which  win- 
ter wages  for  supremacy,  and  often  it  is  a 
half-hearted  attempt;  but  after  the  army  of  the 
North  has  retreated,  with  its  icicles  and  snow- 
drifts, spring  seems  dazed  for  a  while.  Victory 
has  been  dearly  bought,  and  April  is  the  season 
when,  for  a  time,  the  trees  and  insects  hang  fire — 
paralysed — while  the  chill  is  thawing  from  their 
marrow.  Our  northern  visitors  of  the  bird  world 
slip  quietly  away.  There  is  no  great  gathering 
of  clans  like  that  of  the  tree  swallows  in  the  fall, 
but  silently,  one  by  one,  they  depart,  following  the 
last  moan  of  the  north  wind,  covering  winter's 
disordered  retreat  with  warbles  and  songs. 

One  evening  we  notice  the  juncos  and  tree  spar- 
rows in  the  tangled,  frost-burned  stubble,  and  the 
next  day,  although  our  eye  catches  glints  of  white 
from  sparrow  tails,  it  is  from  vesper  finches,  not 
from  juncos,  and  the  weed  spray  which  a  few 
hours  before  bent  beneath  a  white-throat's  weight, 
now  vibrates  with  the  energy  which  a  field  spar- 
row puts  into  his  song.  Field  and  chipping  spar- 
rows, which  now  come  in  numbers,  are  somewhat 
alike,  but  by  their  beaks  and  songs  you  may  know 
them.  The  mandibles  of  the  former  are  flesb- 

81 


82  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

coloured,  those  of  the  latter  black.  The  sharp 
chip!  chip!  is  characteristic  of  the  "chippy,"  but 
the  sweet,  dripping  song  of  the  field  sparrow  is 
charming.  No  elaborate  performance  this,  but  a 
succession  of  sweet,  high  notes,  accelerating  to- 
ward the  end,  like  a  coin  of  silver  settling  to  rest 
on  a  marble  table — a  simple,  chaste  vespers  which 
rises  to  the  setting  sun  and  endears  the  little 
brown  singer  to  us. 

We  may  learn  much  by  studying  these  homely 
little  frequenters  of  our  orchards  and  pastures; 
each  has  a  hundred  secrets  which  await  patient 
and  careful  watching  by  their  human  lovers.  In 
the  chipping  sparrow  we  may  notice  a  hint  of  the 
spring  change  of  dress  which  warblers  and  tan- 
agers  carry  to  such  an  extreme.  When  he  left  us 
in  the  fall  he  wore  a  dull-streaked  cap,  but  now 
he  comes  from  the  South  attired  in  a  smart  head- 
covering  of  bright  chestnut.  Poor  little  fellow, 
this  is  the  very  best  he  can  do  in  the  way  of  espe- 
cial ornament  to  bewitch  his  lady  love,  but  it 
suffices.  Can  the  peacock's  train  do  more? 

This  is  the  time  to  watch  for  the  lines  of  ducks 
crossing  the  sky,  and  be  ready  to  find  black  ducks 
in  the  oddest  places — even  in  insignificant  rain 
pools  deep  in  the  woods.  In  the  early  spring  the 
great  flocks  of  grackles  and  redwings  return, 
among  the  first  to  arrive  as  they  were  the  last  to 
leave  for  the  South. 

Before  the  last  fox  sparrow  goes,  the  hermit 


SPRING  SONGSTERS  83 

thrush  comes,  and  these  birds,  alike  in  certain 
superficialities,  but  so  actually  unrelated,  for  a 
time  seek  their  food  in  the  same  grove. 

The  hardier  of  the  warblers  pass  us  in  April, 
stopping  a  few  days  before  continuing  to  the 
northward.  We  should  make  haste  to  identify 
them  and  to  learn  all  we  can  of  their  notes  and 
habits,  not  only  because  of  the  short  stay  which 
most  of  them  make,  but  on  account  of  the  vast 
assemblage  of  warbler  species  already  on  the 
move  in  the  Southern  States,  which  soon,  in  pan- 
oply of  rainbow  hues,  will  crowd  our  groves  and 
wear  thin  the  warbler  pages  of  our  bird  books. 

These  April  days  we  are  sure  to  see  flocks  of 
myrtle,  or  yellow-rumped  warblers,  and  yellow 
palm  warblers  in  their  olive-green  coats  and  chest- 
nut caps.  The  black-and-white  creeper  will  always 
show  himself  true  to  his  name — a  creeping  bundle 
of  black  and  white  streaks.  When  we  hear  of  the 
parula  warbler  or  of  the  Cape  May  warbler  we 
get  no  idea  of  the  appearance  of  the  bird,  but  when 
we  know  that  the  black-throated  green  warblers 
begin  to  appear  in  April,  the  first  good  view  of 
one  of  this  species  will  proclaim  him  as  such. 

We  have  marked  the  fox  sparrow  as  being  a 
great  scratcher  among  dead  leaves.  His  habit  is 
continued  in  the  spring  by  the  towhee,  or  che- 
wink,  who  uses  the  same  methods,  throwing  both 
feet  backward  simultaneously.  The  ordinary  call 
note  of  this  bird  is  a  good  example  of  how  diffi- 


84  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

cult  it  is  to  translate  bird  songs  into  human  words. 
Listen  to  the  quick,  double  note  coming  from  the 
underbrush.  Now  he  says  "towliee1!"  the  next 
time  "chewink'!"  You  may  change  about  at  will, 
and  the  notes  will  always  correspond.  Whatever 
is  in  our  mind  at  the  instant,  that  will  seem  to 
be  what  the  bird  says.  This  should  warn  us  of 
the  danger  of  reading  our  thoughts  and  theories 
too  much  into  the  minds  and  actions  of  birds. 
Their  mental  processes,  in  many  ways,  corres- 
pond to  ours.  When  a  bird  expresses  fear,  hate, 
bravery,  pain  or  pleasure,  we  can  sympathise 
thoroughly  with  it,  but  in  studying  their  more 
complex  actions  we  should  endeavour  to  exclude 
the  thousand  and  one  human  attributes  with 
which  we  are  prone  to  colour  the  bird's  mental 
environment. 

John  Burroughs  has  rendered  the  song  of  the 
black-throated  green  warbler  in  an  inimitable  way, 

as  follows:  " V !"    When  we  have 

once  heard  the  bird  we  will  instantly  recognise 
the  aptness  of  these  symbolic  lines.  The  least 
flycatcher,  called  minimus  by  the  scientists,  well 
deserves  his  name,  for  of  all  those  members  of 
his  family  which  make  their  home  with  us,  he  is 
the  smallest.  These  miniature  flycatchers  have  a 
way  of  hunting  which  is  all  their  own.  They  sit 
perched  on  some  exposed  twig  or  branch,  motion- 
less until  some  small  insect  flies  in  sight.  Then 
they  will  launch  out  into  the  air,  and,  catching 


SPRING  SONGSTERS  85 

the  insect  with  a  snap  of  their  beaks,  fly  back  to 
the  same  perch.  They  are  garbed  in  subdued 
grays,  olives,  and  yellows.  The  least  flycatcher 
has  another  name  which  at  once  distinguishes  him 
* — chebec'.  As  he  sits  on  a  limb,  his  whole  body 
trembles  when  he  jerks  out  these  syllables,  and  his 
tail  s^aps  as  if  it  played  some  important  part  in 
the  mechanism  of  his  vocal  effort. 

When  you  are  picking  cowslips  and  hepaticas 
early  in  the  month,  keep  a  lookout  for  the  first 
barn  swallow.  Nothing  gives  us  such  an  impres- 
sion of  the  independence  and  individuality  of 
birds  as  when  a  solitary  member  of  some  species 
arrives  days  before  others  of  his  kind.  One  fork- 
tailed  beauty  of  last  year's  nest  above  the  hay- 
mow may  hawk  about  for  insects  day  after  day 
alone,  before  he  is  joined  by  other  swallows.  Did 
he  spend  the  winter  by  himself,  or  did  the  heim- 
weh  smite  his  heart  more  sorely  and  bring  him 
irresistibly  to  the  loved  nest  in  the  rafters  I  This 
love  of  home,  which  is  so  striking  an  attribute  of 
birds,  is  a  wonderfully  beautiful  thing.  It  brings 
the  oriole  back  to  the  branch  where  still  swings 
her  exquisite  purse-shaped  home  of  last  summer ; 
it  leads  each  pair  of  fishhawks  to  their  particular 
cartload  of  sticks,  to  which  a  few  more  must  be 
added  each  year ;  it  hastens  the  wing  beats  of  the 
sea-swallows  northward  to  the  beach  which,  ten 
months  ago,  was  flecked  with  their  eggs — the 
shifting  grains  of  sand  their  only  nest. 


86  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

This  love  of  home,  of  birthplace,  bridges  over  a 
thousand  physical  differences  between  these 
feathered  creatures  and  ourselves.  We  forget 
their  expressionless  masks  of  horn,  their  feath- 
ered fingers,  their  scaly  toes,  and  looking  deep 
into  their  clear,  bright  eyes,  we  know  and  feel  a 
kinship,  a  sympathy  of  spirit,  which  binds  us  all 
together,  and  we  are  glad. 

Yet  these  sweet  sounds  of  the  early  season, 
And  these  fair  sights  of  its  sunny  days, 

Are  only  sweet  when  we  fondly  listen, 
And  only  fair  when  we  fondly  gaze. 

There  is  no  glory  in  star  or  blossom 

Till  looked  upon  by  a  loving  eye; 
There  is  no  fragrance  in  April  breezes 

Till  breathed  with  joy  as  they  wander  by. 

WILLIAM  CULLEN  BBYANT. 


THE  SIMPLE  AET  OF  SAPSUCKING 

THE  yellow-bellied  sapsucker  is,  at  this  time 
of  year,  one  of  our  most  abundant  wood- 
peckers, and  in  its  life  we  have  an  excellent 
example  of  that  individuality  which  is  ever  crop- 
ping out  in  Nature — the  trial  and  acceptance  of 
life  under  new  conditions. 

In  the  spring  we  tap  the  sugar  maples,  and 
gather  great  pailf uls  of  the  sap  as  it  rises  from  its 
winter  resting-place  in  the  roots,  and  the  sap- 
sucker  likes  to  steal  from  our  pails  or  to  tap  the 
trees  for  himself.  But  throughout  part  of  the 
year  he  is  satisfied  with  an  insect  diet  and  chooses 
the  time  when  the  sap  begins  to  flow  downward 
in  the  autumn  for  committing  his  most  serious 
depredations  upon  the  tree.  It  was  formerly 
thought  that  this  bird,  like  its  near  relatives,  the 
downy  and  hairy  woodpeckers,  was  forever  bor- 
ing for  insects ;  but  when  we  examine  the  regular- 
ity and  symmetry  of  the  arrangement  of  its  holes, 
we  realise  that  they  are  for  a  very  different  pur- 
pose than  the  exposing  of  an  occasional  grub. 

Besides  drinking  the  sap  from  the  holes,  this 
bird  extracts  a  quantity  of  the  tender  inner  bark 
of  the  tree,  and  when  a  tree  has  been  encircled 
for  several  feet  up  and  down  its  trunk  by  these 


88  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

numerous  little  sap  wells,  the  effect  becomes  ap- 
parent in  the  lessened  circulation  of  the  liquid 
blood  of  the  tree ;  and  before  long,  death  is  certain 
to  ensue.  So  the  work  of  the  sapsucker  is  inju- 
rious, while  the  grub-seeking  woodpeckers  confer 
only  good  upon  the  trees  they  frequent. 

And  how  pitiful  is  the  downfall  of  a  doomed 
tree!  Hardly  has  its  vitality  been  lessened  an 
appreciable  amount,  when  somehow  the  word  is 
passed  to  the  insect  hordes  who  hover  about  in 
waiting,  as  wolves  hang  upon  the  outskirts  of  a 
herd  of  buffalo.  In  the  spring,  when  the  topmost 
branches  have  received  a  little  less  than  their 
wonted  amount  of  wholesome  sap  and  the  leaves 
are  less  vigorous,  the  caterpillars  and  twig- 
girdlers  attack  at  once.  Ichneumen  flies  and  bor- 
ing beetles  seem  to  know  by  signs  invisible  to  us 
that  here  is  opportunity.  Then  in  the  fall  come 
again  the  sapsuckers  to  the  tree,  remorselessly 
driving  hole  after  hole  through  the  still  untouched 
segments  of  its  circle  of  life.  When  the  last  sap- 
channel  is  pierced  and  no  more  can  pass  to  the 
roots,  the  tree  stands  helpless,  waiting  for  the 
end.  Swiftly  come  frost  and  rain,  and  when  the 
April  suns  again  quicken  all  the  surrounding 
vegetation  into  vigorous  life,  the  victim  of  the 
sapsuckers  stands  lifeless,  its  branches  reaching 
hopelessly  upward,  a  naked  mockery  amid  the 
warm  green  foliage  around.  Insects  and  fungi 
and  lightning  now  set  to  work  unhindered,  and 


THE  SIMPLE  ART  OF  SAPSUCKING         89 

the  tree  falls  at  last,— dust  to  dust— ashes  to 
ashes. 

A  sapsucker  has  been  seen  in  early  morning  to 
sink  forty  or  fifty  wells  into  the  bark  of  a  moun- 
tain ash  tree,  and  then  to  spend  the  rest  of  the 
day  in  sidling  from  one  to  another,  taking  a  sip 
here  and  a  drink  there,  gradually  becoming  more 
and  more  lethargic  and  drowsy,  as  if  the  sap 
actually  produced  some  narcotic  or  intoxicating 
effect.  Strong  indeed  is  the  contrast  between  such 
a  picture  and  the  same  bird  in  the  early  spring, — 
then  full  of  life  and  vigour,  drawing  musical  re- 
verberations from  some  resonant  hollow  limb. 

Like  other  idlers,  the  sapsucker  in  its  deeds  of 
gluttony  and  harm  brings,  if  anything,  more  in- 
jury to  others  than  to  itself.  The  farmers  well 
know  its  depredations  and  detest  it  accordingly, 
but  unfortunately  they  are  not  ornithologists,  and 
a  peckerwood  is  a  peckerwood  to  them;  and  so 
while  the  poor  downy,  the  red-head,  and  the  hairy 
woodpeckers  are  seen  busily  at  work  cutting  the 
life  threads  of  the  injurious  borer  larvae,  the 
farmer,  thinking  of  his  dying  trees,  slays  them  all 
without  mercy  or  distinction.  The  sapsucker  is 
never  as  confiding  as  the  downy,  and  from  a  safe 
distance  sees  others  murdered  for  sins  which  are 
his  alone. 

But  we  must  give  sapsucker  his  due  and  admit 
that  he  devours  many  hundreds  of  insects 
throughout  the  year,  and  though  we  mourn  the 


90  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

death  of  an  occasional  tree,  we  cannot  bnt  admire 
his  new  venture  in  life, — his  cunning  in  choosing 
only  the  dessert  served  at  the  woodpeckers' 
feasts, — the  sweets  which  flow  at  the  tap  of  a 
beak,  leaving  to  his  fellows  the  labour  of  search- 
ing and  drilling  deep  for  more  substantial  courses. 


WILD  WINGS 

THE  ides  of  March  see  the  woodcock  back  in 
its  northern  home,  and  in  early  April  it  pre- 
pares for  nesting.  The  question  of  the  nest  itself 
is  a  very  simple  matter,  being  only  a  cavity, 
formed  by  the  pressure  of  the  mother's  body, 
among  the  moss  and  dead  leaves.  The  formalities 
of  courtship  are,  however,  quite  another  thing, 
and  the  execution  of  interesting  aerial  dances 
entails  much  effort  and  time. 

It  is  in  the  dusk  of  evening  that  the  male  wood- 
cock begins  his  song, — plaintive  notes  uttered  at 
regular  intervals,  and  sounding  like  peent!  peent! 
Then  without  warning  he  launches  himself  on  a 
sharply  ascending  spiral,  his  wings  whistling 
through  the  gloom.  Higher  and  higher  he  goes, 
balances  a  moment,  and  finally  descends  abruptly, 
with  zigzag  rushes,  wings  and  voice  both  aiding 
each  other  in  producing  the  sounds,  to  which,  let 
us  suppose,  his  prospective  mate  listens  with 
ecstasy.  It  is  a  weird  performance,  repeated 
again  and  again  during  the  same  evening. 

So  pronounced  and  loud  is  the  whistling  of  the 
wings  that  we  wonder  how  it  can  be  produced  by 
ordinary  feathers.  The  three  outer  primaries 
of  the  wing,  which  in  most  birds  are  usually  like 

91 


92  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

the  others,  in  the  woodcock  are  very  stiff,  and 
the  vanes  are  so  narrow  that  when  the  wing  is 
spread  there  is  a  wide  space  between  each  one. 
When  the  wing  beats  the  air  rapidly,  the  wind 
rushes  through  these  feather  slits, — and  we  have 
the  accompaniment  of  the  love-song  explained. 

The  feather-covered  arms  and  hands  of  birds 
are  full  of  interest ;  and  after  studying  the  wing 
of  a  chicken  which  has  been  plucked  for  the  table, 
we  shall  realise  how  wonderful  a  transformation 
has  taken  place  through  the  millions  of  years  past. 
Only  three  stubby  fingers  are  left  and  these  are 
stiff  and  almost  immovable,  but  the  rest  of  the 
forearm  is  very  like  that  of  our  own  arm. 

See  how  many  facts  we  can  accumulate  about 
wings,  by  giving  special  attention  to  them,  when 
watching  birds  fly  across  the  sky.  How  easy  it 
is  to  identify  the  steady  beats  of  a  crow,  or  the 
more  rapid  strokes  of  a  duck;  how  distinctive  is 
the  frequent  looping  flight  of  a  goldfinch,  or  the 
longer,  more  direct  swings  of  a  woodpecker ! 

Hardly  any  two  birds  have  wings  exactly 
similar  in  shape,  every  wing  being  exquisitely 
adapted  to  its  owner's  needs.  The  gull  soars  or 
flaps  slowly  on  his  long,  narrow,  tireless  pinions, 
while  the  quail  rises  suddenly  before  us  on  short, 
rounded  wings,  which  carry  it  like  a  rocket  for  a 
short  distance,  when  it  settles  quickly  to  earth 
again.  The  gull  would  fare  ill  were  it  compelled 
to  traverse  the  ocean  with  such  brief  spurts  of 


WILD  WINGS  93 

speed,  while,  on  the  other  hand,  the  last  bob-white 
would  shortly  vanish,  could  it  escape  from  fox 
or  weasel  only  with  the  slow  flight  of  a  gull.  How 
splendidly  the  sickle  wings  of  a  swift  enable  it 
to  turn  and  twist,  bat-like,  in  its  pursuit  of 
insects ! 

You  may  be  able  to  identify  any  bird  near  your 
home,  you  may  know  its  nest  and  eggs,  its  song 
and  its  young;  but  begin  at  the  beginning  again 
and  watch  their  wings  and  their  feet  and  their 
bills  and  you  will  find  that  there  are  new  and 
wonderful  truths  at  your  very  doorstep.  Try 
bringing  home  from  your  walk  a  list  of  bill-uses 
or  feet-functions.  Remember  that  a  familiar 
object,  looked  at  from  a  new  point  of  view,  will 
take  to  itself  unthought-of  significance. 

Whither  midst  falling  dew, 

While  glow  the  heavens  with  the  last  steps  of  day, 
Far,  through  their  rosy  depths,  dost  thou  pursue 

Thy  solitary  way? 

WILLIAM  CULLBN  BRYANT. 


THE  BIRDS  IN  THE  MOON 

THE  lover  of  birds  who  has  spent  the  day  in 
the  field  puts  away  his  glasses  at  nightfall, 
looking  forward  to  a  walk  after  dark  only  as 
a  chance  to  hear  the  call  of  nocturnal  birds  or  to 
catch  the  whirr  of  a  passing  wing.  But  some 
bright  moonlight  night  in  early  May,  or  again  in 
mid  September,  unsheath  your  glasses  and  tie 
them,  telescope-fashion,  to  a  window-ledge  or  rail- 
ing. Seat  yourself  in  an  easy  position  and  focus 
on  the  moon.  Shut  out  all  earthly  scenes  from 
your  mind  and  imagine  yourself  wandering  amid 
those  arid  wastes.  "What  a  scene  of  cosmic  desola- 
tion! What  vast  deserts,  and  gaping  craters  of 
barren  rock!  The  cold,  steel-white  planet  seems 
of  all  things  most  typical  of  death. 

But  those  specks  passing  across  its  surface? 
At  first  you  imagine  they  are  motes  clogging  the 
delicate  blood-vessels  of  the  retina;  then  you 
wonder  if  a  distant  host  of  falling  meteors  could 
have  passed.  Soon  a  larger,  nearer  mote  ap- 
pears ;  the  moon  and  its  craters  are  forgotten  and 
with  a  thrill  of  delight  you  realise  that  they  are 
birds— living,  flying  birds— of  all  earthly  things 
typical  of  the  most  vital  life  I  Migration  is  at  its 
height,  the  chirps  and  twitters  which  come  from 

94 


THE  BIRDS  IN  THE  MOON  95 

the  surrounding  darkness  are  tantalising  hints 
telling  of  the  passing  legions.  Thousands  and 
thousands  of  birds  are  every  night  pouring  north- 
ward in  a  swift,  invisible,  aerial  stream. 

As  a  projecting  pebble  in  mid-stream  blurs  the 
transparent  water  with  a  myriad  bubbles,  so  the 
narrow  path  of  moon-rays,  which  our  glass  re- 
veals, cuts  a  swath  of  visibility  straight  through 
the  host  of  birds  to  our  eager  eyes.  How  we  hate 
to  lose  an  instant 's  opportunity!  Even  a  wink 
may  allow  a  familiar  form  to  pass  unseen.  If  we 
can  use  a  small  telescope,  the  field  of  view  is  much 
enlarged.  Now  and  then  we  recognise  the  flight 
of  some  particular  species, — the  swinging  loop  of 
a  woodpecker  or  goldfinch,  or  the  flutter  of  a 
sandpiper. 

It  has  been  computed  that  these  birds  some- 
times fly  as  much  as  a  mile  or  more  above  the  sur* 
face  of  the  earth,  and  when  we  think  of  the  tiny, 
fluttering  things  at  this  terrible  height,  it  takes 
our  breath  away.  What  a  panorama  of  dark 
earth  and  glistening  river  and  ocean  must  be 
spread  out  beneath  them!  How  the  big  moon 
must  glow  in  that  rarefied  air !  How  diminutive 
and  puerile  must  seem  the  houses  and  cities  of 
human  fashioning ! 

The  instinct  of  migration  is  one  of  the  most 
wonderful  in  the  world.  A  young  bob-white  and 
a  bobolink  are  hatched  in  the  same  New  England 
field.  The  former  grows  up  and  during  the  fall 


96  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

and  winter  forms  one  of  the  covey  which  is  con- 
tent to  wander  a  mile  or  two,  here  and  there,  in 
search  of  good  feeding  grounds.  Hardly  has  the 
bobolink  donned  his  first  full  dress  before  an  irre- 
sistible impulse  seizes  him.  One  night  he  rises 
up  and  up,  ever  higher  on  fluttering  wings,  sets 
his  course  southward,  gives  you  a  glimpse  of  him 
across  the  moon,  and  keeps  on  through  Virginia 
to  Florida,  across  seas,  over  tropical  islands,  far 
into  South  America,  never  content  until  he  has 
put  the  great  Amazon  between  him  and  his  far 
distant  birthplace. 

He  who,  from  zone  to  zone, 

Guides  through  the  boundless  sky  thy  certain  flight, 
In  the  long  way  that  I  must  tread  alone, 

Will  lead  my  steps  aright. 

WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT. 


MAY 


THE  HIGH  TIDE  OF  BIRD  LIFE 

FOB  abundance  and  for  perfection  of  song 
and  plumage,  of  the  whole  year,  May  is  the 
month  of  birds.  Insects  appear  slowly  in  thb 
spring  and  are  numerous  all  summer;  squirrels 
and  mice  are  more  or  less  in  evidence  during  all 
the  twelve  months;  reptiles  unearth  themselves 
at  the  approach  of  the  warm  weather,  and  may 
be  found  living  their  slow,  sluggish  life  until  late 
in  the  fall.  In  eggs,  cocoons,  discarded  bird's- 
nests,  in  earthen  burrows,  or  in  the  mud  at  the 
bottom  of  pond  or  stream,  all  these  creatures  have 
spent  the  winter  near  where  we  find  them  in  the 
spring.  But  birds  are  like  creatures  of  another 
world;  and,  although  in  every  summer's  walk  we 
may  see  turtles,  birds,  butterflies,  and  chipmunks, 
all  interweaving  their  life  paths  across  one  an- 
other's haunts,  yet  the  power  of  extended  flight 
and  the  wonderful  habit  of  continental  migration 
set  birds  apart  from  all  other  living  creatures. 
A  bird  during  its  lifetime  has  almost  twice  the 
conscious  existence  of,  say,  a  snake  or  any  hiber- 
nating mammal.  And  now  in  early  May,  when 
the  creatures  of  the  woods  and  fields  have  only 
recently  opened  their  sleepy  eyes  and  stretched 
their  thin  forms,  there  comes  the  great  world- 

99 


100  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

wide  army  of  the  birds,  whose  bright  eyes  peer  at 
us  from  tree,  thicket,  and  field,  whose  brilliant 
feathers  and  sweet  songs  bring  summer  with  a 
leap — the  height  of  the  grand  symphony,  of  which 
the  vernal  peeping  of  the  frogs  and  the  squirrels' 
chatter  were  only  the  first  notes  of  the  prelude. 

Tantalus-like  is  the  condition  of  the  amateur 
bird-lover,  who,  book  in  hand,  vainly  endeavours 
to  identify  the  countless  beautiful  forms  which 
appear  in  such  vast  numbers,  linger  a  few  days 
and  then  disappear,  passing  on  to  the  northward, 
but  leaving  behind  a  goodly  assemblage  which 
spends  the  summer  and  gives  abundant  opportu- 
nity for  study  during  the  succeeding  months.  In 
May  it  is  the  migrants  which  we  should  watch, 
and  listen  to,  and  "ogle"  with  our  opera  glasses. 
Like  many  other  evanescent  things,  those  birds 
which  have  made  their  winter  home  in  Central 
America — land  yet  beyond  our  travels — and 
which  use  our  groves  merely  as  half-way  houses 
on  their  journey  to  the  land  of  their  birth,  the 
balsams  of  Quebec,  or  the  unknown  wastes  of 
Labrador,  seem  most  precious,  most  worthy  at 
this  time  of  our  closest  observation. 

More  confusing — albeit  the  more  delightful — 
is  a  season  when  continued  cold  weather  and  chilly 
rains  hold  back  all  but  the  hardiest  birds,  until—- 
like the  dammed-up  piles  of  logs  trembling  with 
the  spring  freshets— the  tropic  winds  carry  all 
before  them,  and  all  at  once  winter  birds  which 


THE  HIGH  TIDE  OF  BIRD  LIFE          101 

have  sojourned  only  a  few  miles  south  of  us, 
summer  residents  which  should  have  appeared 
weeks  ago,  together  with  the  great  host  of  Ca- 
nadian and  other  nesters  of  the  north,  appear 
within  a  few  days'  time. 

A  backward  season  brings  strangers  into  close 
company  for  a  while.  A  white-throat  sings  his 
clear  song  of  the  North,  and  a  moment  later  is 
answered  by  an  oriole's  melody,  or  the  sweet 
tones  of  a  rose-breasted  grosbeak — the  latter  one 
of  those  rarely  favoured  birds,  exquisite  in  both 
plumage  and  song. 

The  glories  of  our  May  bird  life  are  the  wood 
warblers,  and  innumerable  they  must  seem  to  one 
who  is  just  beginning  his  studies;  indeed,  there 
are  over  seventy  species  that  find  their  way  into 
the  United  States.  Many  are  named  from  the 
distribution  of  colour  upon  their  plumage — the 
blue-winged  yellow,  the  black-throated  blue,  chest- 
nut-sided, bay-breasted,  and  black  poll.  Perhaps 
the  two  most  beautiful — most  reflective  of  bright 
tropical  skies  and  flowers — are  the  magnolia  and 
the  blackburnian.  The  first  fairly  dazzles  us  with 
its  bluish  crown,  white  and  black  face,  black  and 
olive-green  back,  white  marked  wings  and  tail, 
yellow  throat  and  rump,  and  strongly  streaked 
breast.  The  blackburnian  is  an  exquisite  little 
fellow,  *narked  with  white  and  black,  but  with  the 
crown,  several  patches  on  the  face,  the  throat 
and  breast  of  a  rich  warm  orange  that  glows 


102  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

amid  the  green  foliage  like  a  living  coal  of  fire. 
The  black  poll  warbler  is  an  easy  bird  to  identify ; 
but  do  not  expect  to  recognise  it  when  it  returns 
from  the  North  in  the  fall.  Its  black  crown  has 
disappeared,  and  in  general  it  looks  like  a  dif- 
ferent bird. 

At  the  present  time  when  the  dogwood  blossoms 
are  in  their  full  perfection,  and  the  branches  and 
twigs  of  the  trees  are  not  yet  hidden,  but  their 
outlines  only  softened  by  the  light,  feathery  foli- 
age, the  tanagers  and  orioles  have  their  day. 
Nesting  cares  have  not  yet  made  them  fearful  of 
showing  their  bright  plumage,  and  scores  of  the 
scarlet  and  orange  forms  play  among  the 
branches. 

The  flycatchers  and  vireos  now  appear  in  force 
— little  hunters  of  insects  clad  in  leafy  greens  and 
browns,  with  now  and  then  a  touch  of  brightness 
— as  in  the  yellow-throated  vireo  or  in  the  crest 
of  the  kingbird. 

The  lesser  sandpipers,  both  the  spotted  and  the 
solitary,  teeter  along  the  brooks  and  ponds,  and 
probe  the  shallows  for  tiny  worms.  Near  the 
woody  streams  the  so-called  water  thrushes 
spring  up  before  us.  Strange  birds  these,  in  ap- 
pearance like  thrushes,  in  their  haunts  and  in 
their  teetering  motion  like  sandpipers,  but  in 
reality  belonging  to  the  same  family  as  the  tree- 
loving  wood  warblers.  A  problem  not  yet  *olved 
by  ornithologists  is:  what  was  the  mode  of  life  of 


THE  HIGH  TIDE  OF  BIRD  LIFE          103 

the  ancestor  of  the  many  warblers!  Did  he  cling 
to  and  creep  along  the  bark,  as  the  black-and- 
white  warbler,  or  feed  from  the  ground  or  the 
thicket  as  does  the  worm-eating?  Did  he  snatch 
flies  on  the  wing  as  the  necklaced  Canadian  war- 
bler, or  glean  from  the  brook's  edge  as  our  water 
thrush?  The  struggle  for  existence  has  not  been 
absent  from  the  lives  of  these  light-hearted  little 
fellows,  and  they  have  had  to  be  jack-of -all-trades 
in  their  search  for  food. 

The  gnats  and  other  flying  insects  have  indeed 
to  take  many  chances  when  they  slip  from  their 
cocoons  and  dance  up  and  down  in  the  warm  sun- 
light !  Lucky  for  their  race  that  there  are  millions 
instead  of  thousands  of  them;  for  now  the  swifts 
and  great  numbers  of  tree  and  barn  swallows 
spend  the  livelong  day  in  swooping  after  the 
unfortunate  gauzy-winged  motes,  which  have 
risen  above  the  toad's  maw  upon  land,  and  beyond 
the  reach  of  the  trout's  leap  over  the  water. 

It  would  take  an  article  as  long  as  this  simply 
to  mention  hardly  more  than  the  names  of  the 
birds  that  we  may  observe  during  a  walk  in  May ; 
and  with  bird  book  and  glasses  we  must  see  for 
ourselves  the  bobolinks  in  the  broad  meadows, 
the  cowbirds  and  rusty  blackbirds,  and,  pushing 
through  the  lady-slipper  marshes,  we  may  sur- 
prise the  solitary  great  blue  and  the  little  green 
herons  at  their  silent  fishing. 

No  matter  how  late  the  spring  may  be,  the  great 


104  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

migration  host  will  reach  its  height  from  the 
tenth  to  the  fifteenth  of  the  month.  From  this 
until  June  first,  migrants  will  be  passing,  but  in 
fewer  and  fewer  numbers,  until  the  balance  comes 
to  rest  again,  and  we  may  cease  from  the  strenu- 
ous labours  of  the  last  few  weeks,  confident  that 
those  birds  that  remain  will  be  the  builders  of 
the  nests  near  our  homes — nests  that  they  know 
so  well  how  to  hide.  Even  before  the  last  day  of 
May  passes,  we  see  many  young  birds  on  their 
first  weak-winged  flights,  such  as  bluebirds  and 
robins ;  but  June  is  the  great  month  of  bird  homes, 
as  to  May  belong  the  migrants. 

Robins  and  mocking  birds  that  all  day  long 
Athwart  straight  sunshine  weave  cross-threads  of  song. 

SIDNEY  LANIEK. 


ANIMAL  FASHIONS 

WARM  spring  days  bring  other  changes  than 
thawing  snowbanks  and  the  swelling  buds 
and  leaves,  which  seem  to  grow  almost  visibly.  It 
is  surprising  how  many  of  the  wild  folk  meet 
the  spring  with  changed  appearance — beautiful, 
fantastic  or  ugly  to  us ;  all,  perhaps,  beautiful  to 
them  and  to  their  mates. 

As  a  rule  we  find  the  conditions  which  exist 
among  ourselves  reversed  among  the  animals; 
the  male  "blossoms  forth  like  the  rose,"  while 
the  female's  sombre  winter  fur  or  feathers  are 
reduplicated  only  by  a  thinner  coat  for  summer. 
The  "spring  opening"  of  the  great  classes  of 
birds  and  animals  is  none  the  less  interesting  be- 
cause its  styles  are  not  set  by  Parisian  modistes. 

The  most  gorgeous  display  of  all  is  to  be  found 
among  the  birds,  the  peacock  leading  in  con- 
spicuousness  and  self-consciousness.  What  a  con- 
trast to  the  dull  earthy-hued  little  hen,  for  whose 
slightest  favour  he  neglects  food  to  raise  his  Ar- 
gus-eyed fan,  clattering  his  quill  castanets  and 
screaming  challenges  to  his  rivals !  He  will  even 
fight  bloody  battles  with  invading  suitors;  and, 
after  all,  failure  may  be  the  result.  Imagine  the 
feelings  of  two  superb  birds  fighting  over  a  win- 
some browny,  to  see  her — as  I  have  done — walk 

105 


106  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

off  with  a  spurless,  half-plumaged  young  cock! 

The  males  of  many  birds,  such  as  the  scarlet 
tanager  and  the  indigo  bunting,  assume  during 
the  winter  the  sombre  green  or  brown  hue  of  the 
female,  changing  in  spring  to  a  glorious  scarlet 
and  black,  or  to  an  exquisite  indigo  colour  re- 
spectively. Not  only  do  most  of  the  females  of 
the  feathered  world  retain  their  dull  coats 
throughout  the  year,  but  some  deface  even  this 
to  form  feather  beds  for  the  precious  eggs  and 
nestlings,  to  protect  which  bright  colours  must 
be  entirely  foregone. 

The  spring  is  the  time  when  decorations  are 
seen  at  their  best.  The  snowy  egret  trails  his 
filmy  cloud  of  plumes,  putting  to  shame  the  stiff 
millinery  bunches  of  similar  feathers  torn  from 
his  murdered  brethren.  Even  the  awkward  and 
querulous  night  heron  exhibits  a  long  curling 
plume  or  two.  And  what  a  strange  criterion  of 
beauty  a  female  white  pelican  must  have !  To  be 
sure,  the  graceful  crest  which  Sir  Pelican  erects 
is  beautiful,  but  that  huge,  horny  "keel"  or 
"sight"  on  his  bill!  What  use  can  it  subserve, 
aesthetic  or  otherwise?  One  would  think  that 
such  a  structure  growing  so  near  his  eyes,  and 
day  by  day  becoming  taller,  must  occupy  much  of 
his  attention. 

The  sheldrake  ducks  also  have  a  fleshy  growth 
on  the  bill.  A  turkey  gobbler,  when  his  vernal 
wedding  dress  is  complete,  is  indeed  a  remarkable 


ANIMAL  FASHIONS  107 

sight.  The  mass  of  wattles,  usually  so  gray  and 
shrunken,  is  now  of  most  vivid  hues — scarlet,  blue, 
vermilion,  green, — the  fleshy  tassels  and  swollen 
knobs  making  him  a  most  extraordinary  creature. 

Birds  are  noted  for  taking  exquisite  care  of 
their  plumage,  and  if  the  feathers  become  at  all 
dingy  or  unkempt,  we  know  the  bird  is  in  bad 
health. 

What  a  time  the  deer  and  the  bears,  the  squir- 
rels and  the  mice,  have  when  changing  their 
dress !  Bags  and  tatters ;  tatters  and  rags !  One 
can  grasp  a  handful  of  hair  on  the  flank  of  a 
caribou  or  elk  in  a  zoological  park,  and  the  whole 
will  come  out  like  thistledown;  while  underneath 
is  seen  the  sleek,  short  summer  coat.  A  bear  will 
sometimes  carry  a  few  locks  of  the  long,  brown 
winter  fur  for  months  after  the  clean  black  hairs 
of  the  summer's  coat  are  grown.  What  a  boon  to 
human  tailors  such  an  opportunity  would  be — to 
ordain  that  Mr.  X.  must  wear  the  faded  collar 
or  vest  of  his  old  suit  until  bills  are  paid ! 

It  is  a  poor  substance,  indeed,  which,  when  cast 
aside,  is  not  available  for  some  secondary  use  in 
Nature's  realm;  and  the  hairs  that  fall  from  ani- 
mals are  not  all  left  lo  return  unused  to  their 
original  elements.  The  sharp  eyes  of  birds  spy 
them  out,  and  thus  the  lining  to  many  a  nest  is 
furnished.  I  knew  of  one  feathered  seeker  of 
cast-off  clothing  which  met  disaster  through  try- 
ing to  get  a  supply  at  first  hand — a  sparrow  was 


108  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

found  dead,  tangled  in  the  hairs  of  a  pony's  tail. 
The  chickadee  often  lights  on  the  backs  of  domes- 
tic cattle  and  plucks  out  hair  with  which  to  line 
some  snug  cavity  near  by  for  his  nest.  Before 
the  cattle  came  his  ancestors  were  undoubtedly 
in  the  habit  of  helping  themselves  from  the  deer's 
stock  of  "ole  clo's,"  as  they  have  been  observed 
getting  their  building  material  from  the  deer  in 
zoological  parks. 

Of  course  the  hair  of  deer  and  similar  animals 
falls  out  with  the  motions  of  the  creatures,  or 
is  brushed  out  by  bushes  and  twigs ;  but  we  must 
hope  that  the  shedding  place  of  a  porcupine  is  at 
a  distance  from  his  customary  haunts;  it  would 
be  so  uncomfortable  to  run  across  a  shred  of 
one's  old  clothes — if  one  were  a  porcupine! 

The  skin  of  birds  and  animals  wears  away  in 
small  flakes,  but  when  a  reptile  changes  to  a  new 
suit  of  clothes,  the  old  is  shed  almost  entire.  A 
frog  after  shedding  its  skin  will  very  often  turn 
round  and  swallow  it,  establishing  the  frog  maxim 
4 'every  frog  his  own  old  clothes  bag!" 

Birds,  which  exhibit  so  many  idiosyncrasies, 
appear  again  as  utilizers  of  old  clothes ;  although 
when  a  crested  flycatcher  weaves  a  long  snakeskin 
into  the  fabric  of  its  nest,  it  seems  more  from  the 
standpoint  of  a  curio  collector — as  some  people 
delight  in  old  worn  brass  and  blue  china !  There 
is  another  if  less  artistic  theory  for  this  peculi- 
arity of  the  crested  flycatcher.  The  skin  of  a 


ANIMAL  FASHIONS  109 

snake — a  perfect  ghost  in  its  completeness — • 
would  make  a  splendid  " bogie."  We  can  see  that 
it  might,  indeed,  be  useful  in  such  a  way,  as  in 
frightening  marauding  crows,  who  approach  with 
cannibalistic  intentions  upon  eggs  or  young. 
Thus  the  skin  would  correspond  in  function  to 
the  rows  of  dummy  wooden  guns,  which  make  a 
weak  fort  appear  all  but  invincible. 


POLLIWOG  PROBLEMS 

ancient  Phoenicians,  Egyptians,  Hindus, 
JL  Japanese,  and  Greeks  all  shared  the  belief 
that  the  whole  world  was  hatched  from  an  egg 
made  by  the  Creator.  This  idea  of  development 
is  at  least  true  in  the  case  of  every  living  thing 
upon  the  earth  to-day;  every  plant  springs  from 
its  seed,  every  animal  from  its  egg.  And  still 
another  sweeping,  all-inclusive  statement  may  be 
made, — every  seed  or  egg  at  first  consists  of  but 
one  cell,  and  by  the  division  of  this  into  many 
cells,  the  lichen,  violet,  tree,  worm,  crab,  butter- 
fly, fish,  frog,  or  other  higher  creature  is  formed. 
A  little  embryology  will  give  a  new  impetus  to 
our  studies,  whether  we  watch  the  unfolding 
leaves  of  a  sunflower,  a  caterpillar  emerging  from 
its  egg,  or  a  chick  breaking  through  its  shell. 

The  very  simplest  and  best  way  to  begin  this 
study  is  to  go  to  the  nearest  pond,  where  the 
frogs  have  been  croaking  in  the  evenings.  A 
search  among  the  dead  leaves  and  water-soaked 
sticks  will  reveal  a  long  string  of  black  beads. 
These  are  the  eggs  of  the  toad;  if,  however,  the 
beads  are  not  in  strings,  but  in  irregular  masses, 
then  they  are  frogs'  eggs.  In  any  case  take  home 
a  tumblerful,  place  a  few,  together  with  the  thick, 
transparent  gelatine,  in  which  they  are  encased, 
no 


POLLIWOG  PROBLEMS  111 

in  a  saucer,  and  examine  them  carefully  under 
a  good  magnifying  glass,  or,  better  still,  through 
a  low-power  microscope  lens. 

You  will  notice  that  the  tiny  spheres  are  not 
uniformly  coloured  but  that  half  is  whitish.  If 
the  eggs  have  been  recently  laid  the  surface  will 
be  smooth  and  unmarked,  but  have  patience  and 
watch  them  for  as  long  a  time  as  you  can  spare. 
Whenever  I  can  get  a  batch  of  such  eggs,  I  never 
grudge  a  whole  day  spent  in  observing  them,  for 
it  is  seldom  that  the  mysterious  processes  of  life 
are  so  readily  watched  and  followed. 

Keep  your  eye  fixed  on  the  little  black  and  white 
ball  of  jelly  and  before  long,  gradually  and  yet 
with  never  a  halt,  a  tiny  furrow  makes  its  way 
across  the  surface,  dividing  the  egg  into  equal 
halves.  When  it  completely  encircles  the  sphere 
you  may  know  that  you  have  seen  one  of  the 
greatest  wonders  of  the  world.  The  egg  which 
consisted  of  but  one  cell  is  now  divided  into  two 
exactly  equal  parts,  of  the  deepest  significance. 
Of  the  latter  truth  we  may  judge  from  the  fact 
that  if  one  of  those  cells  should  be  injured,  only 
one-half  a  polliwog  would  result, — either  a  head 
or  a  tail  half. 

Before  long  the  unseen  hand  of  life  ploughs  an- 
other furrow  across  the  egg,  and  we  have  now 
four  cells.  These  divide  into  eight,  sixteen,  and  so 
011  far  beyond  human  powers  of  numeration,  until 
the  beginnings  of  all  the  organs  of  the  tadpole 


112  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

are  formed.  While  we  cannot,  of  course,  follow 
this  development,  we  can  look  at  our  egg  every 
day  and  at  last  see  the  little  wiggle  heads  or  polli- 
wogs  (from  pol  and  wiggle)  emerge. 

In  a  few  days  they  develop  a  fin  around  the  tail, 
and  from  now  on  it  is  an  easy  matter  to  watch 
the  daily  growth.  There  is  no  greater  miracle  in 
the  world  than  to  see  one  of  these  aquatic,  water- 
breathing,  limbless  creatures  transform  before 
your  eyes  into  a  terrestrial,  four-legged  frog  or 
toad,  breathing  air  like  ourselves.  The  humble 
polliwog  in  its  development  is  significant  of  far 
more  marvellous  facts  than  the  caterpillar  chang- 
ing into  the  butterfly,  embodying  as  it  does  the 
deepest  poetry  and  romance  of  evolution. 

Blue  dusk,  that  brings  the  dewy  hours, 
Brings  thee,  of  graceless  form  in  sooth. 

EDGAR  FAWCETT. 


INSECT  PIRATES  AND  SUBMARINES 

FAR  out  on  the  ocean,  when  the  vessel  is  labo- 
riously making  her  way  through  the  troughs 
and  over  the  crests  of  the  great  waves,  little  birds, 
black  save  for  a  patch  of  white  on  the  lower  back, 
are  a  common  sight,  flying  with  quick  irregular 
wing-beats,  close  to  the  surface  of  the  troubled 
waters.  When  they  spy  some  edible  bit  floating 
beneath  them,  down  they  drop  until  their  tiny 
webbed  feet  just  rest  upon  the  water.  Then, 
snatching  up  the  titbit,  half -flying,  they  patter 
along  the  surface  of  the  water,  just  missing  being 
engulfed  by  each  oncoming  wave.  Thus  they  have 
come  to  be  named  petrels — little  Peters — because 
they  seem  to  walk  upon  the  water.  Without  aid 
from  the  wings,  however,  they  would  soon  be  im- 
mersed, so  the  walking  is  only  an  illusion. 

But  in  our  smallest  ponds  and  brooks  we  may 
see  this  miracle  taking  place  almost  daily,  the 
feat  being  accomplished  by  a  very  interesting 
little  assemblage  of  insects,  commonly  called 
water  skaters  or  striders.  Let  us  place  our  eyes 
as  near  as  possible  to  the  surface  of  the  water 
and  watch  the  little  creatures  darting  here  and 
there. 

We  see  that  they  progress  securely  on  the  top 

113 


114  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

of  the  water,  resting  upon  it  as  if  it  were  a  sheet 
of  ice.  Their  feet  are  so  adapted  that  the  water 
only  dimples  beneath  their  slight  weight,  the  ex- 
tent of  the  depression  not  being  visible  to  the  eye, 
but  clearly  outlined  in  the  shadows  upon  the  bot- 
tom. In  an  eddy  of  air  a  tiny  fly  is  caught  and 
whirled  upon  the  water,  where  it  struggles  vigor- 
ously, striving  to  lift  its  wings  clear  of  the  surface. 
In  an  instant  the  water  strider — pirate  of  the  pond 
that  he  is — reaches  forward  his  crooked  fore 
legs,  and  here  endeth  the  career  of  the  unfortu- 
nate fly. 

In  the  air,  in  the  earth,  and  below  the  surface 
of  the  water  are  hundreds  of  living  creatures,  but 
the  water  striders  and  their  near  relatives  are 
unique.  No  other  group  shares  their  power  of 
actually  walking,  or  rather  pushing  themselves, 
upon  the  surface  of  the  water.  They  have  a  little 
piece  of  the  world  all  to  themselves.  Yet,  al- 
though three  fifths  of  the  earth's  surface  consists 
of  water,  this  group  of  insects  is  a  small  one.  A 
very  few,  however,  are  found  out  upon  the  ocean, 
where  the  tiny  creatures  row  themselves  cheer- 
fully along.  It  is  thought  that  they  attach  their 
eggs  to  the  floating  saragassum  seaweed.  If  only 
we  knew  the  whole  life  of  one  of  these  ocean 
water  striders  and  all  the  strange  sights  it  must 
see,  a  fairy  story  indeed  would  be  unfolded  to  us. 

However,  all  the  Lilliputian  craft  of  our  brooks 
are  not  galleys;  there  are  submarines,  which,  in 


INSECT  PIRATES  AND  SUBMARINES      115 

excellence  of  action  and  control,  put  to  shame  all 
human  efforts  along  the  same  line.  These  are  the 
water  boatmen,  stout  boat-shaped  insects  whose 
hind  legs  are  long,  projecting  outward  like  the 
oars  of  a  rowboat.  They  feather  their  oars,  too, 
or  rather  the  oars  are  feathered  for  them,  a  fringe 
of  long  hairs  growing  out  on  each  side  of  the 
blade.  Some  of  the  boatmen  swim  upside  down, 
and  these  have  the  back  keeled  instead  of  the 
breast.  Like  real  submarine  boats,  these  insects 
have  to  come  up  for  air  occasionally;  and,  again 
like  similar  craft  of  human  handiwork,  their  prin- 
cipal mission  in  life  seems  to  be  warfare  upon  the 
weaker  creatures  about  them. 

Upon  their  bodies  are  many  short  hairs  that 
have  the  power  of  enclosing  and  retaining  a  good- 
sized  bubble  of  air.  Thus  the  little  boatman  is 
well  supplied  for  each  submarine  trip,  and  he  does 
not  have  to  return  to  the  surface  until  all  this 
storage  air  has  been  exhausted.  In  perfectly  pure 
water,  however,  these  boatmen  can  remain  almost 
indefinitely  below  the  surface,  although  it  is  not 
known  how  they  obtain  from  the  water  the  oxygen 
which  they  usually  take  from  the  air. 

All  of  these  skaters  and  boatmen  thrive  in  small 
aquariums,  and  if  given  pieces  of  scraped  meat 
Nvill  live  in  perfect  health.  Here  is  an  alluring 
opportunity  for  anyone  to  add  to  our  knowledge 
of  insect  life ;  for  the  most  recent  scientific  books 
admit  that  we  do  not  yet  know  the  complete  life 


116  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

history  of  even  one  of  these  little  brothers  of  the 
pond. 

Clear  and  cool,  clear  and  cool, 

By  laughing  shallow,  and  dreaming  poolj 

Cool  and  clear,  cool  and  clear, 

By  shipiog  shingle,  and  foaming  weir. 

CHARLES  KJNGSLEY. 


THE  VICTORY  OF  THE  NIGHTHAWK 


time  is  not  far  distant  when  the  bottom' 
A  of  the  sea  will  be  the  only  place  where 
primeval  wildness  will  not  have  been  denied  or 
destroyed  by  man.  He  may  sail  his  ships  above, 
he  may  peer  downward,  even  dare  to  descend  a 
few  feet  in  a  suit  of  rubber  or  a  submarine  boat, 
or  he  may  scratch  a  tiny  furrow  for  a  few  yards 
with  a  dredge  :  but  that  is  all. 

When  that  time  comes,  the  animals  and  birds 
which  survive  will  be  only  those  which  have  found 
a  way  to  adapt  themselves  to  man's  encroaching, 
all-pervading  civilisation.  The  time  was  when 
our  far-distant  ancestors  had,  year  in  and  year 
out,  to  fight  for  very  existence  against  the  wild 
creatures  about  them.  They  then  gained  the 
upper  hand,  and  from  that  time  to  the  present 
the  only  question  has  been,  how  long  the  wild 
creatures  of  the  earth  could  hold  out. 

The  wolf,  the  bison,  the  beaver  fought  the  bat- 
tle out  at  once  to  all  but  the  bitter  end.  The 
crow,  the  muskrat,  the  fox  have  more  than  held 
their  own,  by  reason  of  cunning,  hiding  or  quick- 
ness of  sight;  but  they  cannot  hope  for  this  to 
last.  The  English  sparrow  has  won  by  sheer 
audacity  ;  but  most  to  be  admired  are  those  crea- 
tures which  have  so  changed  their  habits  that 

117 


118  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

some  product  of  man's  invention  serves  them  as 
well  as  did  their  former  wilderness  home.  The 
eave  swallow  and  barn  swallow  and  the  chimney 
swift  all  belie  their  names  in  the  few  wild  haunts 
still  uninvaded  by  man.  The  first  two  were  origi- 
nally cliff  and  bank  haunters,  and  the  latter 's 
home  was  a  lightning-hollowed  tree. 

But  the  nighthawks  which  soar  and  boom  above 
our  city  streets,  whence  come  they?  Do  they 
make  daily  pilgrimages  from  distant  woods !  The 
city  furnishes  no  forest  floor  on  which  they  may 
lay  their  eggs.  Let  us  seek  a  wide  expanse  of  flat 
roof,  high  above  the  noisy,  crowded  streets.  Let 
it  be  one  of  those  tar  and  pebble  affairs,  so  un- 
pleasant to  walk  upon,  but  so  efficient  in  shedding 
water.  If  we  are  fortunate,  as  we  walk  slowly 
across  the  roof,  a  something,  like  a  brownish  bit 
of  wind-blown  rubbish,  will  roll  and  tumble  ahead 
of  us.  It  is  a  bird  with  a  broken  wing,  we  say. 
How  did  it  ever  get  up  here!  We  hasten  forward 
to  pick  it  up,  when,  with  a  last  desperate  flutter, 
it  topples  off  the  edge  of  the  roof;  but  instead  of 
falling  helplessly  to  the  street,  the  bird  swings 
out  above  the  house-tops,  on  the  white-barred  pin- 
ions of  a  nighthawk.  Now  mark  the  place  where 
first  we  observed  the  bird,  and  approach  it  care- 
fully, crawling  on  hands  and  knees.  Otherwise 
we  will  very  probably  crush  the  two  mottled  bits 
of  shell,  so  exactly  like  pebbles  in  external  ap- 
pearance, but  sheltering  two  little  warm,  beating 


THE  VICTORY  OF  THE  NIGHTHAWK     119 

hearts.  Soon  the  shells  will  crack,  and  the  young 
nighthawks  will  emerge, — tiny  fluffs, — in  colour 
the  very  essence  of  the  scattered  pebbles. 

In  the  autumn  they  will  all  pass  southward  to 
the  far  distant  tropics,  and  when  spring  again 
awakens,  the  instinct  of  migration  will  lead  them, 
not  to  some  mottled  carpet  of  moss  and  rocks  deep 
in  the  woods,  but  to  the  tarred  roof  of  a  house  in 
the  very  heart  of  a  great  city. 


JUNE 


THE  GALA  DAYS  OF  BIRDS 

MIGRATION  is  over,  and  the  great  influx  of 
birds  which  last  month  filled  every  tree  and 
bush  is  now  distributed  over  field  and  wood,  from 
our  dooryard  and  lintel  vine  to  the  furthermost 
limits  of  northern  exploration;  birds,  perhaps, 
having  discovered  the  pole  long  years  ago.  Now 
every  feather  and  plume  is  at  its  brightest  and 
full  development;  for  must  not  the  fastidious 
females  be  sought  and  won? 

And  now  the  great  struggle  of  the  year  is  at 
hand,  the  supreme  moment  for  which  thousands 
of  throats  have  been  vibrating  with  whispered 
rehearsals  of  trills  and  songs,  and  for  which  the 
dangers  that  threaten  the  acquisition  of  bright 
colours  and  long,  inconvenient  plumes  and  orna- 
ments have  been  patiently  undergone.  Now,  if  all 
goes  well  and  his  song  is  clear,  if  his  crest  and 
gorgeous  splashes  of  tints  and  shades  are  fresh 
and  shining  with  the  gloss  of  health,  then  the 
feathered  lover  may  hope,  indeed,  that  the  little 
brown  mate  may  look  with  favour  upon  dance, 
song,  or  antic — and  the  home  is  become  a  reality. 
In  some  instances  this  home  is  for  only  one  short 
season,  when  the  two  part,  probably  forever;  but 
in  other  cases  the  choice  is  for  life. 

123 


124  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

But  if  his  rival  is  stronger,  handsomer,  and— 
victorious,  what  then?  Alas,  the  song  dies  in  his 
throat,  plumes  hang  crestfallen,  and  the  discon- 
solate creature  must  creep  about  through  tangles 
and  brush,  watching  from  a  distance  the  nest- 
building,  the  delights  of  home  life  which  fate  has 
forbidden.  But  the  poor  bachelor  need  not  by 
any  means  lose  hope;  for  on  all  sides  dangers 
threaten  his  happy  rival— cats,  snakes,  jays, 
hawks,  owls,  and  boys.  Hundreds  of  birds  must 
pay  for  their  victory  with  their  lives,  and  then  the 
once  discarded  suitors  are  quickly  summoned  by 
the  widows;  and  these  step-fathers,  no  whit 
chagrined  at  playing  second  fiddle,  fill  up  the 
ranks,  and  work  for  the  young  birds  as  if  they 
were  their  own  offspring. 

There  is  an  unsolved  mystery  about  the  trage- 
dies and  comedies  that  go  on  every  spring. 
Usually  every  female  bird  has  several  suitors,  of 
which  one  is  accepted.  "When  the  death  of  this 
mate  occurs,  within  a  day  or  two  another  is 
found ;  and  this  may  be  repeated  a  dozen  times  in 
succession.  Not  only  this,  but  when  a  female  bird 
is  killed,  her  mate  is  generally  able  at  once  some- 
where, somehow,  to  find  another  to  take  her  place. 
iWhy  these  unmated  males  and  females  remain 
single  until  they  are  needed  is  something  that  has 
never  been  explained. 

The  theme  of  the  courtship  of  birds  is  marvel- 
lously varied  and  comparatively  little  understood. 


THE  GALA  DAYS  OF  BIRDS  125 

"Who  would  think  that  when  our  bald  eagle,  of 
national  fame,  seeks  to  win  his  mate,  his  ardour 
takes  the  form  of  an  undignified  galloping  dance, 
round  and  round  her  from  branch  to  branch! 
Hardly  less  ridiculous — to  our  eyes — is  the 
elaborate  performance  of  our  most  common  wood- 
pecker, the  flicker,  or  high-hole.  Two  or  three 
male  birds  scrape  and  bow  and  pose  and  chatter 
about  the  demure  female,  outrageously  undigni- 
fied as  compared  with  their  usual  behaviour.  They 
do  everything  save  twirl  their  black  moustaches ! 

In  the  mating  season  some  birds  have  beauties 
which  are  ordinarily  concealed.  Such  is  the  male 
ruby-crowned  kinglet,  garbed  in  gray  and  green, 
the  two  sexes  identical,  except  for  the  scarlet 
touch  on  the  crown  of  the  male,  which,  at  courting 
time,  he  raises  and  expands.  Even  the  iris  of 
some  birds  changes  and  brightens  in  colour  at  the 
breeding  season;  while  in  others  there  appear 
about  the  base  of  the  bill  horny  parts,  which  in  a 
month  or  two  fall  off.  The  scarlet  coat  of  the 
tanager  is  perhaps  solely  for  attracting  and  hold- 
ing the  attention  of  the  female,  as  before  winter 
every  feather  is  shed,  the  new  plumage  being  of 
a  dull  green,  like  that  of  its  mate  and  its  young. 

As  mystery  confronts  us  everywhere  in  nature, 
so  we  confess  ourselves  baffled  when  we  attempt 
to  explain  the  most  wonderful  of  all  the  attributes 
of  bird  courtship — song.  Birds  have  notes  to  call 
to  one  another,  to  warn  of  danger,  to  express 


126  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

anger  and  fear;  but  the  highest  development  of 
their  vocal  efforts  seems  to  be  devoted  to  charm- 
ing the  females.  If  birds  have  a  love  of  music, 
then  there  must  be  a  marvellous  diversity  of  taste 
among  them,  ranging  all  the  way  from  the  shriek- 
ing, strident  screams  of  the  parrots  and  macaws 
to  the  tender  pathos  of  the  wood  pewee  and  the 
hermit  thrush. 

If  birds  have  not  some  appreciation  of  sweet 
sounds,  then  we  must  consider  the  many  different 
songs  as  mere  by-products,  excess  of  vitality 
which  expresses  itself  in  results,  in  many  cases, 
strangely  aesthetic  and  harmonious.  A  view  mid- 
way is  indefinable  as  regards  the  boundaries 
covered  by  each  theory.  How  much  of  the  pea- 
cock's train  or  of  the  thrush's  song  is  appreciated 
by  the  female1?  How  much  is  by-product  merely? 

In  these  directions  a  great  field  lies  open  to  the 
student  and  lover  of  birds ;  but  however  we  decide 
for  ourselves  in  regard  to  the  exact  meaning  and 
evolution  of  song,  and  what  use  it  subserves 
among  the  birds,  we  all  admit  the  effect  and  pleas- 
ure it  produces  in  ourselves.  A  world  without  the 
song  of  birds  is  greatly  lacking — such  is  a  desert, 
where  even  the  harsh  croak  of  a  raven  is  melody. 

Perhaps  the  reason  why  the  songs  of  birds  give 
more  lasting  pleasure  than  many  other  things  is 
that  sound  is  so  wonderfully  potent  to  recall  days 
and  scenes  of  our  past  life.  Like  a  sunset,  the 


THE  GALA  DAYS  OF  BIRDS  127 

vision  that  a  certain  song  brings  is  different  to 
each  one  of  us. 

To  me,  the  lament  of  the  wood  pewee  brings  to 
mind  deep,  moist  places  in  the  Pennsylvania  back- 
woods; the  crescendo  of  the  oven  bird  awakens 
memories  of  the  oaks  of  the  Orange  mountains; 
when  a  loon  or  an  olive-sided  flycatcher  or  a  white- 
throat  calls,  the  lakes  and  forests  of  Nova  Scotia 
come  vividly  to  mind;  the  cry  of  a  sea-swallow 
makes  real  again  the  white  beaches  of  Virginia; 
to  me  a  cardinal  has  in  its  song  the  feathery 
lagoons  of  Florida's  Indian  Eiver,  while  the 
shriek  of  a  macaw  and  its  antithesis,  the  silvery, 
interlacing  melodies  of  the  solitaire,  spell  the 
farthest  barrancas  of  Mexico,  with  the  vultures 
ever  circling  overhead,  and  the  smoke  clouds  of 
the  volcano  in  the  distance. 

So  sweet,  so  sweet  the  calling  of  the  thrushes, 
The  calling,  cooing,  wooing,  everywhere; 

So  sweet  the  water's  song  through  reeds  and  rushes, 
The  plover's  piping  note,  now  here,  now  there. 

NORA  PERRY. 


TURTLE  TEAITS 

A  TURTLE,  waddling  his  solitary  way  along 
some  watercourse,  attracts  little  attention 
apart  from  that  aroused  by  his  clumsy,  grotesque 
shape;  yet  few  who  look  upon  him  are  able  to 
give  offhand  even  a  bare  half-dozen  facts  about 
the  humble  creature.  Could  they  give  any  infor- 
mation at  all,  it  would  probably  be  limited  to  two 
or  three  usages  to  which  his  body  is  put — such  as 
soup,  mandolin  picks,  and  combs. 

In  the  northeastern  part  of  our  own  country  we 
may  look  for  no  fewer  than  eight  species  of  turtles 
which  are  semi-aquatic,  living  in  or  near  ponda 
and  streams,  while  another,  the  well-known  box 
tortoise,  confines  its  travels  to  the  uplands  and 
woods. 

There  are  altogether  about  two  hundred  differ- 
ent kinds  of  turtles,  and  they  live  in  all  except 
the  very  cold  countries  of  the  world.  Australia 
has  the  fewest  and  North  and  Central  America 
the  greatest  number  of  species.  Evolutionists 
can  tell  us  little  or  nothing  of  the- origin  of  these 
creatures,  for  as  far  back  in  geological  ages  as 
they  are  found  fossil  (a  matter  of  a  little  over  ten 
million  years),  all  are  true  turtles,  not  half  turtles 
and  half  something  else.  Crocodiles  and  alliga- 
tors, with  their  hard  leathery  coats,  come  as  near 

128 


TURTLE  TRAITS  129 

to  them  as  do  any  living  creatures,  and  when  we 
see  a  huge  snapping  turtle  come  out  of  the  water 
and  walk  about  on  land,  we  cannot  fail  to  be 
reminded  of  the  fellow  with  the  armoured  back. 

Turtles  are  found  on  the  sea  and  on  land,  the 
marine  forms  more  properly  deserving  the  name 
of  turtles ;  tortoises  being  those  living  on  land  or 
in  fresh  water.  We  shall  use  the  name  turtle  as 
significant  of  the  whole  group.  The  most  natural 
method  of  classifying  these  creatures  is  by  the 
way  the  head  and  neck  are  drawn  back  under  the 
shell;  whether  the  head  is  turned  to  one  side,  or 
drawn  straight  back,  bending  the  neck  into  the 
letter  S  shape. 

The  skull  of  a  turtle  is  massive,  and  some  have 
thick,  false  roofs  on  top  of  the  usual  brain  box. 

The  "house"  or  shell  of  a  turtle  is  made  up  of 
separate  pieces  of  bone,  a  central  row  along  the 
back  and  others  arranged  around  on  both  sides. 
These  are  really  pieces  of  the  skin  of  the  back 
changed  to  bone.  Our  ribs  are  directly  under  the 
skin  of  the  back,  and  if  this  skin  should  harden 
into  a  bone-like  substance,  the  ribs  would  lie  flat 
against  it,  and  this  is  the  case  with  the  ribs  of 
turtles.  So  when  we  marvel  that  the  ribs  of  a 
turtle  are  on  the  outside  of  its  body,  a  second 
thought  will  show  us  that  this  is  just  as  true  of 
us  as  it  is  of  these  reptiles. 

This  hardening  of  the  skin  has  brought  about 
some  interesting  changes  in  the  body  of  the  turtle. 


130  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

In  all  the  higher  animals,  from  fishes  up  to  man, 
a  backbone  is  of  the  greatest  importance  not  only 
in  carrying  the  nerves  and  blood-vessels,  but  in 
supporting  the  entire  body.  In  turtles  alone,  the 
string  of  vertebrae  is  unnecessary,  the  shell  giving 
all  the  support  needed.  So,  as  Nature  seldom 
allows  unused  tissues  or  organs  to  remain,  these 
bones  along  the  back  become,  in  many  species, 
reduced  to  a  mere  thread. 

The  pieces  of  bone  or  horn  which  go  to  make  up 
the  shell,  although  so  different  in  appearance  from 
the  skin,  yet  have  the  same  life-processes.  Occa- 
sionally the  shell  moults  or  peels,  the  outer  part 
coming  off  in  great  flakes.  Each  piece  grows  by 
the  addition  of  rings  of  horn  at  the  joints,  and 
(like  the  rings  of  a  tree)  the  age  of  turtles,  except 
of  very  old  ones,  can  be  estimated  by  the  number 
of  circles  of  horn  on  each  piece.  The  rings  are 
very  distinct  in  species  which  live  in  temperate 
climates.  Here  they  are  compelled  to  hibernate 
during  the  winter,  and  this  cessation  of  growth 
marks  the  intervals  between  each  ring.  In  tropi- 
cal turtles  the  rings  are  either  absent  or  indis- 
tinct. It  is  to  this  mode  of  growth  that  the  spread- 
ing of  the  initials  which  are  cut  into  the  shell  is 
due,  just  as  letters  carved  on  the  trunks  of  trees 
in  time  broaden  and  bulge  outward. 

The  shell  has  the  power  of  regeneration,  and 
when  a  portion  is  crushed  or  torn  away  the  in- 
jured parts  are  gradually  cast  off,  and  from  the 


TURTLE  TRAITS  131 

surrounding  edges  a  new  covering  of  horn  grows 
out.  One  third  of  the  entire  shell  has  been  known 
to  be  thus  replaced. 

Although  so  slow  in  their  locomotion  and 
actions,  turtles'  have  well-developed  senses.  They 
can  see  very  distinctly,  and  the  power  of  smell  is 
especially  acute,  certain  turtles  being  very  dis- 
criminating in  the  matter  of  food.  They  are  also 
very  sensitive  to  touch,  and  will  react  to  the  least 
tap  on  their  shells.  Their  hearing,  however,  is 
more  imperfect,  but  as  during  the  mating  season 
they  have  tiny,  piping  voices,  this  sense  must  be 
of  some  use. 

Water  tortoises  can  remain  beneath  the  surface 
for  hours  and  even  days  at  a  time.  In  addition 
to  the  lungs  there  are  two  small  sacs  near  the  tail 
which  allow  the  animal  to  use  the  oxygen  in  the 
water  as  an  aid  to  breathing. 

All  turtles  lay  eggs,  the  shells  of  which  are  white 
and  generally  of  a  parchment-like  character.  They 
are  deposited  in  the  ground  or  in  the  sand,  and 
hatch  either  by  the  warmth  of  the  decaying  vege- 
tation or  by  the  heat  of  the  sun.  In  temperate 
countries  the  eggs  remain  through  the  winter,  and 
the  little  turtles  do  not  emerge  until  the  spring. 
The  eggs  of  turtles  are  very  good  to  eat,  and  the 
oil  contained  in  them  is  put  to  many  uses.  In  all 
the  countries  which  they  inhabit,  young  turtles 
have  a  hard  time  of  it ;  for  thousands  of  them  are 
devoured  by  storks,  alligators,  and  fishes.  Even 


132  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

old  turtles  have  many  enemies,  not  the  least 
strange  being  jaguars,  which  watch  for  them,  turn 
them  on  their  backs  with  a  flip  of  the  paw,  and 
eat  them  at  leisure — on  the  half  shell,  as  it  were ! 

Leathery  turtles — which  live  in  the  sea — have 
been  reported  weighing  over  a  thousand  pounds ! 
This  species  is  very  rare,  and  a  curious  circum- 
stance is  that  only  very  large  adults  and  very 
small  baby  individuals  have  been  seen,  the  turtles 
of  all  intermediate  growths  keeping  in  the  deep 
ocean  out  of  view. 

Snapping  turtles  are  among  the  fiercest  crea- 
tures in  the  world.  On  leaving  the  egg  their  first 
instinct  is  to  open  their  mouths  and  bite  at  some- 
thing. They  feed  on  almost  anything,  but  when 
in  captivity  they  sometimes  refuse  to  eat,  and 
have  been  known  to  go  a  year  without  food,  show- 
ing no  apparent  ill  effects.  One  method  which 
they  employ  in  capturing  their  food  is  interesting. 
A  snapping  turtle  will  lie  quietly  at  the  bottom  of 
a  pond  or  lake,  looking  like  an  old  water-soaked 
log  with  a  branch — its  head  and  neck — at  one  end. 
From  the  tip  of  the  tongue  the  creature  extrudes 
two  small  filaments  of  a  pinkish  colour  which 
wriggle  about,  bearing  a  perfect  resemblance  to 
the  small  round  worms  of  which  fishes  are  so  fond. 
Attracted  by  these,  fishes  swim  up  to  grasp  the 
squirming  objects  and  are  engulfed  by  the  cruel 
mouth  of  the  angler.  Certain  marine  turtles  have 


TURTLE  TRAITS  133 

long-fringed  appendages  on  the  head  and  neck, 
which,  waving  about,  serve  a  similar  purpose. 

The  edible  terrapin  has,  in  many  places,  become 
very  rare ;  so  that  thousands  of  them  are  kept  and 
bred  in  enclosed  areas,  or  "crawls,"  as  they  are 
called.  This  species  is  noted  for  its  curious  dis- 
position, and  it  is  often  captured  by  being 
attracted  by  some  unusual  sound. 

The  tortoise-shell  of  commerce  is  obtained  from 
the  shell  of  the  hawksbill  turtle,  the  plates  of 
which,  being  very  thin,  are  heated  and  welded  to- 
gether until  of  the  required  thickness.  The  age  to 
which  turtles  live  has  often  been  exaggerated,  but 
they  are  certainly  the  longest  lived  of  all  living 
creatures.  Individuals  from  the  Galapagos  Is- 
land are  estimated  to  be  over  four  hundred  years 
old.  When,  in  a  zoological  garden,  we  see  one  of 
these  creatures  and  study  his  aged,  aged  look,  as 
he  slowly  and  deliberately  munches  the  cabbage 
which  composes  his  food,  we  can  well  believe  that 
such  a  being  saw  the  light  of  day  before  Colum- 
bus made  his  memorable  voyage. 

He's  his  own  landlord,  his  own  tenant;  stay 
Long  as  he  will,  he  dreads  no  Quarter  Day. 
Himself  he  boards  and  lodges;  both  invites 
And  feasts  himself;  sleeps  with  himself  o'nights. 
He  spares  the  upholsterer  trouble  to  procure 
Chattels;  himself  is  his  own  furniture, 
Knock  when  you  will, — he's  sure  to  be  at  home. 

CHAELES  LAMB. 


A  HALF-HOUE  IN  A  MARSH 

fTlHERE  are  little  realms  all  around  of  which 
JL  many  of  us  know  nothing.  Take,  for 
example,  some  marsh  within  a  half -hour 's  trolley 
ride  of  any  of  our  cities  or  towns.  Select  one 
where  cat-tails  and  reeds  abound.  Mosquitoes 
and  fear  of  malaria  keep  these  places  free  from 
invasion  by  humankind;  but  if  we  select  some 
windy  day  we  may  laugh  them  both  to  scorn,  and 
we  shall  be  well  repaid  for  our  trip.  The  birds 
frequenting  these  places  are  so  seldom  disturbed 
that  they  make  only  slight  effort  to  conceal  their 
nests,  and  we  shall  find  plenty  of  the  beautiful 
bird  cradles  rocking  with  every  passing  breeze. 

A  windy  day  will  also  reveal  an  interesting 
feature  of  the  marsh.  The  soft,  velvety  grass, 
which  abounds  in  such  places,  is  so  pliant  and 
yielding  that  it  responds  to  every  breath,  and  each 
approaching  wave  of  air  is  heralded  by  an  advanc- 
ing curl  of  the  grass.  At  our  feet  these  grass- 
waves  intersect  and  recede,  giving  a  weird  sensa- 
tion, as  if  the  ground  were  moving,  or  as  if  we 
were  walking  on  the  water  itself.  Where  the 
grass  is  longer,  the  record  of  some  furious  gale  is 
permanently  fixed — swaths  and  ripples  seeming 
to  roll  onward,  or  to  break  into  green  foam.  The 
simile  of  a  l 'painted  ocean"  is  perfectly  carried 

134 


A  HALF-HOUR  IN  A  MARSH  135 

out.  There  is  no  other  substance,  not  even  sand, 
which  simulates  more  exactly  the  motions  of  wa- 
ter than  this  grass. 

In  the  nearest  clump  of  reeds  we  notice  several 
red-winged  blackbirds,  chattering  nervously.  A 
magnificent  male  bird,  black  as  night,  and  with 
scarlet  epaulets  burning  on  his  shoulders,  swoops 
at  us,  while  his  inconspicuous  brownish  consorts 
vibrate  above  the  reeds,  some  with  grubs,  some 
empty  mouthed.  They  are  invariable  indexes  of 
what  is  below  them.  We  may  say  with  perfect 
assurance  that  in  that  patch  of  rushes  are  two 
nests,  one  with  young;  beyond  are  three  others, 
all  with  eggs. 

We  find  beautiful  structures,  firm  and  round, 
woven  of  coarse  grasses  inside  and  dried  reeds 
without,  hung  between  two  or  three  supporting 
stalks,  or,  if  it  is  a  fresh-water  marsh,  sheltered 
by  long,  green  fern  fronds.  The  eggs  are  worthy 
of  their  cradles — pearly  white  in  colour,  with 
scrawls  and  blotches  of  dark  purple  at  the  larger 
end — hieroglyphics  which  only  the  blackbirds  can 
translate. 

In  another  nest  we  find  newly  hatched  young, 
looking  like  large  strawberries,  their  little  naked 
bodies  of  a  vivid  orange  colour,  with  scanty  gray 
tufts  of  down  here  and  there.  Not  far  away  is  a 
nest,  overflowing  with  five  young  birds  ready  to 
fly,  which  scramble  out  at  our  approach  and  start 
boldly  off ;  but  as  their  weak  wings  give  out,  they 


136  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

soon  come  to  grief.  We  catch  one  and  find  that 
it  has  most  delicate  colours,  resembling  its  mother 
in  being  striped  brown  and  black,  although  its 
breast  and  under  parts  are  of  an  unusually  beau- 
tiful tint — a  kind  of  salmon  pink.  I  never  saw  this 
shade  elsewhere  in  Nature. 

Blackbirds  are  social  creatures,  and  where  we 
find  one  nest,  four  or  five  others  may  be  looked  for 
near  by.  The  red-winged  blackbird  is  a  mormon 
in  very  fact,  and  often  a  solitary  male  bird  may 
be  seen  guarding  a  colony  of  three  or  four  nests, 
each  with  an  attending  female.  A  sentiment  of 
altruism  seems  indeed  not  unknown,  as  I  have 
seen  a  female  give  a  grub  to  one  of  a  hungry  nest- 
ful,  before  passing  on  to  brood  her  own  eggs,  yet 
unhatched. 

While  looking  for  the  blackbirds'  nests  we  shall 
come  across  numerous  round,  or  oval,  masses  of 
dried  weeds  and  grass — mice  homes  we  may  think 
them;  and  the  small,  winding  entrance  concealed 
on  one  side  tends  to  confirm  this  opinion.  Several 
will  be  empty,  but  when  in  one  our  fingers  touch 
six  or  eight  tiny  eggs,  our  mistake  will  be  appar- 
ent. Long-billed  marsh  wrens  are  the  architects, 
and  so  fond  are  they  of  building  that  frequently 
three  or  four  unused  nests  are  constructed  before 
the  little  chocolate  jewels  are  deposited. 

If  we  sit  quietly  for  a  few  moments,  one  of  the 
owners,  overcome  by  wren  curiosity,  will  appear, 
clinging  to  a  reed  stalk  and  twitching  his  pert, 


A  HALF-HOUR  IN  A  MARSH  137 

upturned  tail,  the  badge  of  his  family.  Soon  he 
springs  up  into  the  air  and,  bubbling  a  jumble  of 
liquid  notes,  sinks  back  into  the  recesses  of  the 
cat-tails.  Another  and  another  repeat  this  until 
the  marsh  rings  with  their  little  melodies. 

If  we  seat  ourselves  and  watch  quietly  we  may 
possibly  behold  an  episode  that  is  not  unusual. 
The  joyous  songs  of  the  little  wrens  suddenly  give 
place  to  cries  of  fear  and  anger;  and  this  hub- 
bub increases  until  at  last  we  see  a  sinister  ripple 
flowing  through  the  reeds,  marking  the  advancing 
head  of  a  water  snake. 

The  evil  eyes  of  the  serpent  are  bent  upon  the 
nearest  nest,  and  toward  it  he  makes  his  way,  fol- 
lowed and  beset  by  all  the  wrens  in  the  vicinity. 
Slowly  the  scaly  creature  pushes  himself  up  on 
the  reeds ;  and  as  they  bend  under  his  weight  he 
makes  his  way  the  more  easily  along  them  to  the 
nest.  His  head  is  pushed  in  at  the  entrance,  but 
an  instant  later  the  snake  twines  downward  to  the 
water.  The  nest  was  empty.  Again  he  seeks  an 
adjoining  nest,  and  again  is  disappointed;  and 
now,  a  small  fish  attracting  his  attention,  he  goes 
off  in  swift  pursuit,  leaving  untouched  the  third 
nest  in  sight,  that  containing  the  precious  eggs. 
Thus  the  apparently  useless  industry  of  the  tiny 
wrens  has  served  an  invaluable  end,  and  the 
tremulous  chorus  is  again  timidly  taken  up — little 
hymns  of  thanksgiving  we  may  imagine  them  now. 

These  and  many  others  are  sights  which  a  half- 


138  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

hour's  tramp,  [without  even  wetting  our  shoes, 
may  show  us.  Before  we  leave,  hints  of  more 
deeply  hidden  secrets  of  the  marsh  may  perhaps 
come  to  us.  A  swamp  sparrow  may  show  by  its 
actions  that  its  nest  is  not  far  away;  from  the 
depths  of  a  ditch  jungle  the  clatter  of  some  rail 
comes  faintly  to  our  ears,  and  the  distant  croak 
of  a  night  heron  reaches  us  from  its  feeding- 
grounds,  guarded  by  the  deeper  waters. 

And  what  if  behind  me  to  westward  the  wall  of  the  woods 

stands  high? 
The  world  lies  east :  how  ample,  the  marsh  and  the  sea  and  the 

sky  I 
A  league  and  a  league  of  marsh-grass,  waist-high,  broad  in  the 

blade. 

Oh,  what  is  abroad  in  the  marsh  and  terminal  sea? 

Somehow  my  soul  seems  suddenly  free 

From  the  weighing  of  fate  and  the  sad  discussion  of  sin. 

SIDNEY  LANIEB. 


SECRETS  OF  THE  OCEAN 

WE  are  often  held  spellbound  by  the  majesty 
of  mountains,  and  indeed  a  lofty  peak 
forever  capped  with  snow,  or  pouring  forth  smoke 
and  ashes,  is  impressive  beyond  all  terrestrial 
things.  But  the  ocean  yields  to  nothing  in  its 
grandeur,  in  its  age,  in  its  ceaseless  movement, 
and  the  question  remains  forever  unanswered, 
"Who  shall  sound  the  mysteries  of  the  sea?" 
Before  the  most  ancient  of  mountains  rose  from 
the  heart  of  the  earth,  the  waves  of  the  sea  rolled 
as  now,  and  though  the  edges  of  the  continents 
shrink  and  expand,  bend  into  bays  or  stretch  out 
into  capes,  always  through  all  the  ages  the  sea 
follows  and  laps  with  ripples  or  booms  with 
breakers  unceasingly  upon  the  shore. 

Whether  considered  from  the  standpoint  of  the 
scientist,  the  mere  curiosity  of  the  tourist,  or  the 
keen  delight  of  the  enthusiastic  lover  of  Nature, 
the  shore  of  the  sea — its  sands  and  waters,  its 
ever-changing  skies  and  moods — is  one  of  the  most 
interesting  spots  in  the  world.  The  very  bottom 
of  the  deep  bays  near  shore — dark  and  eternally 
silent,  prisoned  under  the  restless  waste  of  waters 
— is  thickly  carpeted  with  strange  and  many- 
coloured  forms  of  animal  and  vegetable  life.  But 
the  beaches  and  tide-pools  over  which  the  moon- 

139 


140  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

urged  tides  hold  sway  in  their  ceaseless  rise  and 
fall,  teem  with  marvels  of  Nature's  handiwork, 
and  every  day  are  restocked  and  replanted  with 
new  living  objects,  both  arctic  and  tropical  offer- 
ings of  each  heaving  tidal  pulse. 

Here  on  the  northeastern  shores  of  our  conti- 
nent one  may  spend  days  of  leisure  or  delightful 
study  among  the  abundant  and  ever  changing 
variety  of  wonderful  living  creatures.  It  is  not 
unlikely  that  the  enjoyment  and  absolute  novelty 
of  this  new  world  may  enable  one  to  look  on  these 
as  some  of  the  most  pleasant  days  of  life.  I  write 
from  the  edge  of  the  restless  waters  of  Fundy,  but 
any  rock-strewn  shore  will  duplicate  the  marvels. 

At  high  tide  the  surface  of  the  Bay  is  unbroken 
by  rock  or  shoal,  and  stretches  glittering  in  the 
sunlight  from  the  beach  at  one's  feet  to  where  the 
New  Brunswick  shore  is  just  visible,  appearing 
like  a  low  bluish  cloud  on  the  horizon.  At  times 
the  opposite  shore  is  apparently  brought  nearer 
and  made  more  distinct  by  a  mirage,  which  Inverts 
it,  together  with  any  ships  which  are  in  sight.  A 
brig  may  be  seen  sailing  along  keel  upward,  in  the 
most  matter-of-fact  way.  The  surface  may  anon 
be  torn  by  those  fearful  squalls  for  which  Fundy 
is  noted,  or,  calm  as  a  mirror,  reflect  the  blue  sky 
with  an  added  greenish  tinge,  troubled  only  by 
the  gentle  alighting  of  a  gull,  the  splash  of  a  king- 
fisher or  occasional  osprey,  as  these  dive  for  their 
prey,  or  the  ruffling  which  shows  where  a  school 


SECRETS  OF  THE  OCEAN  i« 

of  mackerel  is  passing.  This  latter  sign  always 
sends  the  little  sailing  dories  hurrying  out,  where 
they  beat  back  and  forth,  like  shuttles  travelling 
across  a  loom,  and  at  each  turn  a  silvery  strug- 
gling form  is  dragged  into  the  boat. 

A  little  distance  along  the  shore  the  sandy  beach 
ends  and  is  replaced  by  huge  bare  boulders,  scat- 
tered and  piled  in  the  utmost  confusion.  Back  of 
these  are  scraggly  spruces,  with  branches  which 
have  been  so  long  blown  landwards  that  they  have 
bent  and  grown  altogether  on  that  side, — perma- 
nent weather-vanes  of  Fundy's  storms.  The  very 
soil  in  which  they  began  life  was  blown  away,  and 
their  gna*led  weather-worn  roots  hug  the  rocks, 
clutching  every  crevice  as  a  drowning  man  would 
grasp  an  oar.  On  the  side  away  from  the  bay  two 
or  three  long,  thick  roots  stretch  far  from  each 
tree  to  the  nearest  earth-filled  gully,  sucking  what 
scanty  nourishment  they  can,  for  strength  to  with- 
stand the  winter's  gales  yet  another  year  or  dec- 
ade. Beach-pea  and  sweet  marsh  lavender  tint 
the  sand,  and  stunted  fringed  orchids  gleam  in  the 
coarse  grass  farther  inland.  High  up  among  the 
rocks,  where  there  is  scarcely  a  handful  of  soil, 
delicate  harebells  sway  and  defy  the  blasts,  endur- 
ing because  of  their  very  pliancy  and  weakness. 

If  we  watch  awhile  we  will  see  a  line  of  blackish 
seaweed  and  wet  sand  appearing  along  the  edge  of 
the  water,  showing  that  the  tide  has  turned  and 
begun  to  recede.  In  an  hour  it  has  ebbed  a  con- 


142  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

siderable  distance,  and  if  we  clamber  down  over 
the  great  weather-worn  rocks  the  hardy  advance 
guard  of  that  wonderful  world  of  life  under  the 
water  is  seen.  Barnacles  whiten  the  top  of  every 
rock  which  is  reached  by  the  tide,  although  the 
water  may  cover  them  only  a  short  time  each  day. 
But  they  flourish  here  in  myriads,  and  the  shorter 
the  chance  they  have  at  the  salt  water  the  more 
frantically  their  little  feathery  feet  clutch  at  the 
tiny  food  particles  which  float  around  them.  These 
thousands  of  tiny  turreted  castles  are  built  so 
closely  together  that  many  are  pressed  out  of 
shape,  paralleling  in  shape  as  in  substance  the 
inorganic  crystals  of  the  mineral  kingdom.  The 
valved  doors  are  continually  opening  and  partly 
closing,  and  if  we  listen  quietly  we  can  hear  a  per- 
petual shuss !  shuss !  Is  it  the  creaking  of  the  tiny 
hinges?  As  the  last  receding  wave  splashes  them, 
they  shut  their  folding  doors  over  a  drop  or  two 
and  remain  tightly  closed,  while  perhaps  ten  hours 
of  sunlight  bake  them,  or  they  glisten  ir  the  moon- 
light for  the  same  length  of  time,  ready  at  the  first 
touch  of  the  returning  water  to  open  wide  and 
welcome  it. 

The  thought  of  their  life  history  brings  to  mind 
how  sadly  they  retrogress  as  they  grow,  hatching 
as  minute  free-swimming  creatures  like  tiny  lob- 
sters, and  gradually  changing  to  this  plant-like 
life,  sans  eyes,  sans  head,  sans  most  everything 
except  a  stomach  and  a  few  pairs  of  feathery  feet 


SECRETS  OF  THE  OCEAN  143 

to  kick  food  into  it.  A  few  pitiful  traces  of  nerves 
are  left  them.  What  if  there  were  enough  gan- 
glia to  enable  them  to  dream  of  their  past  higher 
life,  in  the  long  intervals  of  patient  waiting! 

A  little  lower  down  we  come  to  the  zone  of  mus- 
sels,— hanging  in  clusters  like  some  strange  sea- 
fruit.  Each  is  attached  by  strands  of  thin  silky 
cables,  so  tough  that  they  often  defy  our  utmost 
efforts  to  tear  a  specimen  away.  How  secure  these 
creatures  seem,  how  safe  from  all  harm,  and  yet 
they  have  enemies  which  make  havoc  among  them. 
At  high  tide  fishes  come  and  crunch  them,  shells 
and  all,  and  multitudes  of  carnivorous  snails  are 
waiting  to  set  their  file-like  tongues  at  work,  which 
mercilessly  drill  through  the  lime  shells,  bring- 
ing death  in  a  more  subtle  but  no  less  certain 
form.  Storms  may  tear  away  the  support  of  these 
poor  mollusks,  and  the  waves  dash  them  far  out  of 
the  reach  of  the  tides,  while  at  low  water,  crows 
and  gulls  use  all  their  ingenuity  to  get  at  their 
toothsome  flesh. 

There  are  no  ant-hills  in  the  sea,  but  when  we 
turn  over  a  large  stone  and  see  scores  upon  scores 
of  small  black  shrimps  scurrying  around,  the 
resemblance  to  those  insects  is  striking.  These 
little  creatures  quickly  hitch  away  on  their  sides, 
getting  out  of  sight  in  a  remarkably  short  time. 

The  tide  is  going  down  rapidly,  and  following  it 
step  by  step  novel  sights  meet  the  eye  at  every 
turn,  and  we  begin  to  realise  that  in  this  narrow 


144  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

strip,  claimed  alternately  by  sea  and  land,  which 
would  be  represented  on  a  map  by  the  finest  of 
hair-lines,  there  exists  a  complete  world  of  ani- 
mated life,  comparing  in  variety  and  numbers 
with  the  life  in  that  thinner  medium,  air.  We 
climb  over  enormous  boulders,  so  different  in  ap- 
pearance that  they  would  never  be  thought  to  con- 
sist of  the  same  material  as  those  higher  up  on 
the  shore.  These  are  masses  of  wave-worn  rock, 
twenty  or  thirty  feet  across,  piled  in  every  im- 
aginable position,  and  completely  covered  with  a 
thick  padding  of  seaweed.  Their  drapery  of  algae 
hangs  in  festoons,  and  if  we  draw  aside  these  sub- 
marine curtains,  scenes  from  a  veritable  fairy- 
land are  disclosed.  Deep  pools  of  water,  clear  as 
crystal  and  icy  cold,  contain  creatures  both  hide- 
ous and  beautiful,  sombre  and  iridescent,  formless 
and  of  exquisite  shape. 

The  sea-anemones  first  attract  attention,  show- 
ing as  splashes  of  scarlet  and  salmon  among  the 
olive-green  seaweed,  or  in  hundreds  covering  the 
entire  bottom  of  a  pool  with  a  delicately  hued  mist 
of  waving  tentacles.  As  the  water  leaves  these 
exposed  on  the  walls  of  the  caves,  they  lose  their 
plump  appearance  and,  drawing  in  their  wreath 
of  tentacles,  hang  limp  and  shrivelled,  resembling 
pieces  of  water-soaked  meat  as  much  as  anything. 
Submerged  in  the  icy  water  they  are  veritable 
animal-flowers.  Their  beauty  is  indeed  well 
guarded,  hidden  by  the  overhanging  seaweed  in 


SECRETS  OF  THE  OCEAN  145 

these  caves  twenty-five  feet  or  more  below  high- 
water  mark. 

Here  in  these  beautiful  caverns  we  may  make 
aquariums,  and  transplant  as  many  animal-flowers 
as  we  wish.  "Wherever  we  place  them  their  fleshy, 
snail-like  foot  spreads  out,  takes  tight  hold,  and 
the  creature  lives  content,  patiently  waiting  for 
the  Providence  of  the  sea  to  send  food  to  its  many 
wide-spread  fingers. 

Carpeted  with  pink  algae  and  dainty  sponges, 
draped  with  sea-lettuce  like  green  tissue  paper, 
decorated  with  strange  corallines,  these  natural 
aquariums  far  surpass  any  of  artificial  make.  Al- 
though the  tide  drives  us  from  them  sooner  or 
later,  we  may  return  with  the  sure  prospect  of 
finding  them  refreshed  and  perhaps  replenished 
with  many  new  forms.  For  often  some  of  the 
deep-water  creatures  are  held  prisoners  in  the 
lower  tide-pools,  as  the  water  settles,  somewhat  as 
when  the  glaciers  receded  northward  after  the  Ice 
Age  there  were  left  on  isolated  mountain  peaks 
traces  of  the  boreal  fauna  and  flora. 

If  we  are  interested  enough  to  watch  our 
anemones  we  will  find  much  entertainment.  Let 
us  return  to  our  shrimp  colonies  and  bring  a  hand- 
ful to  our  pool.  Drop  one  in  the  centre  of  an 
anemone  and  see  how  quickly  it  contracts.  The 
tentacles  bend  over  it  exactly  as  the  sticky  hairs 
of  the  sun-dew  plant  close  over  a  fly.  The  shrimp 
struggles  for  a  moment  and  is  then  drawn  down- 


146  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

ward  out  of  sight.  The  birth  of  an  anemone  is 
well  worth  patient  watching,  and  this  may  take 
place  in  several  different  ways.  We  may  see  a 
large  individual  with  a  number  of  tiny  bunches 
on  the  sides  of  the  body,  and  if  we  keep  this  one 
in  a  tumbler,  before  long  these  protuberances  will 
be  seen  to  develop  a  few  tentacles  and  at  last 
break  off  as  perfect  miniature  anemones.  Or 
again,  an  anemone  may  draw  in  its  tentacles  with- 
out apparent  cause,  and  after  a  few  minutes  ex- 
pand more  widely  than  ever.  Suddenly  a  move- 
ment of  the  mouth  is  seen,  and  it  opens,  and  one, 
two,  or  even  a  half-dozen  tiny  anemones  shoot 
forth.  They  turn  and  roll  in  the  little  spurt  of 
water  and  gradually  settle  to  the  rock  alongside 
of  the  mother.  In  a  short  time  they  turn  right 
side  up,  expand  their  absurd  little  heads,  and 
begin  life  for  themselves.  These  animal  "buds" 
may  be  of  all  sizes ;  some  minute  ones  will  be  much 
less  developed  and  look  very  unlike  the  parent. 
These  are  able  to  swim  about  for  a  while,  and 
myriads  of  them  may  be  born  in  an  hour.  Others, 
as  we  have  seen,  have  tentacles  and  settle  down 
at  onee. 

Fishes,  little  and  big,  are  abundant  in  the  pools, 
darting  here  and  there  among  the  leathery  fronds 
of  "devils'  aprons,"  cavernous-mouthed  angler 
fish,  roly-poly  young  lump-suckers,  lithe  butter- 
fish,  and  many  others. 

Moving  slowly  through  the  pools  are  many 


SECRETS  OF  THE  OCEAN  147 

beautiful  creatures,  some  so  evanescent  that  they 
are  only  discoverable  by  the  faint  shadows  which 
they  cast  on  the  bottom,  others  suggest  animated 
spheres  of  prismatic  sunlight.  These  latter  are 
tiny  jelly-fish,  circular  hyaline  masses  of  jelly  with 
eight  longitudinal  bands,  composed  of  many 
comb-like  plates,  along  which  iridescent  waves  of 
light  continually  play.  The  graceful  appearance 
of  these  exquisite  creatures  is  increased  by  two 
long,  fringed  tentacles  streaming  behind,  drifting 
at  full  length  or  contracting  into  numerous  coils. 
The  fringe  on  these  streamers  is  a  series  of  living 
hairs — an  aquatic  cobweb,  each  active  with  life, 
and  doing  its  share  in  ensnaring  minute  atoms  of 
food  for  its  owner.  When  dozens  of  these 
ctenophores  (or  comb-bearers)'  as  they  are  called, 
glide  slowly  to  and  fro  through  a  pool,  the  sight  is 
not  soon  forgotten.  To  try  to  photograph  them 
is  like  attempting  to  portray  the  substance  of  a 
sunbeam,  but  patience  works  wonders,  and  even  a 
slightly  magnified  image  of  a  living  jelly  is 
secured,  which  shows  very  distinctly  all  the  de- 
tails of  its  wonderfully  simple  structure;  the 
pouch,  suspended  in  the  centre  of  the  sphere, 
which  does  duty  as  a  stomach;  the  sheaths  into 
which  the  long  tentacles  may  be  so  magically 
packed,  and  the  tiny  organ  at  the  top  of  this  living 
ball  of  spun  glass,  serving,  with  its  minute  weights 
and  springs,  as  compass,  rudder,  and  pilot  to  this 
little  creature,  which  does  not  fear  to  pit  its 


148  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

muscles  of  jelly  against  the  rush,  and  might  of 
breaking  waves. 

Even  the  individual  comb-plates  or  rows  of  oars 
are  plainly  seen,  although,  owing  to  their  rapid 
motion,  they  appear  to  the  naked  eye  as  a  single 
band  of  scintillating  light.  This  and  other  magni- 
fied photographs  were  obtained  by  fastening  the 
lens  of  a  discarded  bicycle  lantern  in  a  cone  of 
paper  blackened  on  the  inside  with  shoe-blacking. 
With  this  crude  apparatus  placed  in  front  of  the 
lens  of  the  camera,  the  evanescent  beauties  of 
these  most  delicate  creatures  were  preserved. 

Other  equally  beautiful  forms  of  jelly-fish  are 
balloon-shaped.  These  are  Bertie,  fitly  named 
after  the  daughter  of  the  old  god  Oceanus.  They, 
like  others  of  their  family,  pulsate  through  the 
water,  sweeping  gracefully  along,  borne  on  cur- 
rents of  their  own  making. 

Passing  to  other  inhabitants  of  the  pools,  we 
find  starfish  and  sea-urchins  everywhere  abun- 
dant. Hunched-up  groups  of  the  former  show 
where  they  are  dining  in  their  unique  way  on  un- 
fortunate sea-snails  or  anemones,  protruding 
their  whole  stomach  and  thus  engulfing  their  vic- 
tim. The  urchins  strain  and  stretch  with  their 
innumerable  sucker-feet,  feeling  for  something  to 
grasp,  and  in  this  laborious  way  pull  themselves 
along.  The  mouth,  with  the  five  so-called  teeth, 
is  a  conspicuous  feature,  visible  at  the  centre  of 
the  urchin  and  surrounded  by  the  greenish  spines. 


SECRETS  OF  THE  OCEAN  149 

Some  of  the  starfish  are  covered  with  long  spines, 
others  are  nearly  smooth.  The  colours  are  won- 
derfully varied, — red,  purple,  orange,  yellow,  etc. 

The  stages  through  which  these  prickly  skinned 
animals  pass,  before  they  reach  the  adult  state, 
are  wonderfully  curious,  and  only  when  they  are 
seen  under  the  microscope  can  they  be  fully  ap- 
preciated. A  bolting-cloth  net  drawn  through 
some  of  the  pools  will  yield  thousands  in  many 
stages,  and  we  can  take  eggs  of  the  common  star- 
fish and  watch  their  growth  in  tumblers  of  water. 
At  first  the  egg  seems  nothing  but  a  tiny  round 
globule  of  jelly,  but  soon  a  dent  or  depression 
appears  on  one  side,  which  becomes  deeper  and 
deeper  until  it  extends  to  the  centre  of  the  egg- 
mass.  It  is  as  if  we  should  take  a  round  ball  of 
putty  and  gradually  press  our  finger  into  it.  This 
pressed-in  sac  is  a  kind  of  primitive  stomach  and 
the  entrance  is  used  as  a  mouth.  After  this  fol- 
lows a  marvellous  succession  of  changes,  form 
giving  place  to  form,  differing  more  in  appear- 
ance and  structure  from  the  five-armed  starfish 
than  a  caterpillar  differs  from  a  butterfly. 

For  example,  when  about  eight  days  old, 
another  mouth  has  formed  and  two  series  of  deli- 
cate cilia  or  swimming  hairs  wind  around  the 
creature,  by  means  of  which  it  glides  slowly 
through  the  water.  The  photographs  of  a  starfish 
of  this  age  show  the  stomach  with  its  contents,  a 
dark  rounded  mass  near  the  lower  portion  of  the 


150  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

organism.  The  vibrating  bands  which  outline  the 
tiny  animal  are  also  visible.  The  delicacy  of  struc- 
ture and  difficulty  of  preserving  these  young  star- 
fish alive  make  these  pictures  of  particular  value, 
especially  as  they  were  taken  of  the  living  forms 
swimming  in  their  natural  element.  Each  day 
and  almost  each  hour  adds  to  the  complexity  of 
the  little  animal,  lung  tentacles  grow  out  and 
many  other  larval  stages  are  passed  through 
before  the  starfish  shape  is  discernible  within  this 
curious  "nurse"  or  living,  changing  egg.  Then 
the  entire  mass,  so  elaborately  evolved  through 
so  long  a  time,  is  absorbed  and  the  little  baby  star 
sinks  to  the  bottom  to  start  on  its  new  life,  crawl- 
ing around  and  over  whatever  happens  in  its  path 
and  feeding  to  repletion  on  succulent  oysters.  It 
can  laugh  at  the  rage  of  the  oysterman,  who 
angrily  tears  it  in  pieces,  for  "time  heals  all 
wounds"  literally  in  the  case  of  these  creatures, 
and  even  if  the  five  arms  are  torn  apart,  five  star- 
fish, small  of  arm  but  with  healthy  stomachs,  will 
soon  be  foraging  on  the  oyster  bed. 

But  to  return  to  our  tide-pools.  In  the  skim- 
ming net  with  the  young  starfish  many  other  crea- 
tures are  found,  some  so  delicate  and  fragile  that 
they  disintegrate  before  microscope  and  camera 
can  be  placed  in  position.  I  lie  at  full  length  on 
a  soft  couch  of  seaweed  with  my  face  close  to  a 
tiny  pool  no  larger  than  my  hand.  A  few  arma- 
dillo shells  and  limpets  crawl  on  the  bottom,  but 


SECRETS  OF  THE  OCEAN  151 

a  frequent  troubling  of  the  water  baffles  me.  I 
make  sure  my  breath  has  nothing  to  do  with  it, 
but  still  it  continues.  At  last  a  beam  of  sunshine 
lights  up  the  pool,  and  as  if  a  film  had  rolled  from 
my  eyes  I  see  the  cause  of  the  disturbance.  A  sea- 
worm — or  a  ghost  of  one — is  swimming  about.  Its 
large,  brilliant  eyes,  long  tentacles,  and  innumer- 
able waving  appendages  are  now  as  distinct  as 
before  they  had  been  invisible.  A  trifling  change 
in  my  position  and  all  vanishes  as  if  by  magic. 
There  seems  not  an  organ,  not  a  single  part  of 
the  creature,  which  is  not  as  transparent  as  the 
water  itself.  The  fine  streamers  into  which  the 
paddles  and  gills  are  divided  are  too  delicate  to 
have  existence  in  any  but  a  water  creature,  and 
the  least  attempt  to  lift  the  animal  from  its  ele- 
ment would  only  tear  and  dismember  it,  so  I  leave 
it  in  the  pool  to  await  the  return  of  the  tide. 

Shrimps  and  prawns  of  many  shapes  and  col- 
ours inhabit  every  pool.  One  small  species, 
abundant  on  the  algae,  combines  the  colour  changes 
of  a  chameleon  with  the  form  and  manner  of 
travel  of  a  measuring-worm,  looping  along  the 
fronds  of  seaweed  or  swimming  with  the  same 
motion.  Another  variety  of  shrimp  resembles 
the  common  wood-louse  found  under  pieces  of 
bark,  but  is  most  beautifully  iridescent,  glowing 
like  an  opal  at  the  bottom  of  the  pool.  The  curi- 
ous little  sea-spiders  keep  me  guessing  for  a  long 
time  where  their  internal  organs  can  be,  as  they 


192  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

consist  of  legs  with  merely  enough  body  to  con- 
nect these  firmly  together.  The  fact  that  the 
thread-like  stomach  and  other  organs  send  a 
branch  into  each  of  the  eight  legs  explains  the 
mystery  and  shows  how  far  economy  of  space  may 
go.  Their  skeleton-forms,  having  the  appearance 
of  eight  straggling  filaments  of  seaweed,  are  thus, 
doubtless,  a  great  protection  to  these  creatures 
from  their  many  enemies.  Other  hobgoblin  forms 
with  huge  probosces  crawl  slowly  over  the  floors 
of  the  anemone  caves,  or  crouch  as  the  shadow  of 
my  hand  or  net  falls  upon  them. 

The  larger  gorgeously  coloured  and  graceful 
sea-worms  contribute  not  a  small  share  to  the 
beauty  of  Fundy  tide-pools,  swimming  in  irides- 
cent waves  through  the  water  or  waving  theit 
Medusa-head  of  crimson  tentacles  at  the  bottom 
among  the  sea-lettuce.  These  worms  form  tubes 
of  mud  for  themselves,  and  the  rows  of  hooks  on 
each  side  of  the  body  enable  them  to  climb  up  and 
down  in  their  dismal  homes. 

Much  of  the  seaweed  from  deeper  bottoms 
seems  to  be  covered  with  a  dense  fur,  which  under 
a  hand  lens  resolves  into  beautiful  hydroids,— 
near  relatives  of  the  anemones  and  corals. 
Scientists  have  happily  given  these  most  euphoni- 
ous names — Campanularia,  0~belia,  and  Plumu- 
laria.  Among  the  branches  of  certain  of  these, 
numbers  of  round  discs  or  spheres  are  visible. 
These  are  young  medusae  or  jelly-fish,  which  grow 


SECRETS  OF  THE  OCEAN  1&3 

like  bunches  of  currants,  and  later  will  break  off 
and  swim  around  at  pleasure  in  the  water.  Occa- 
sionally one  is  fortunate  enough  to  discover  these 
small  jellies  in  a  pool  where  they  can  be  photo- 
graphed as  they  pulsate  back  and  forth.  When 
these  attain  their  full  size  they  lay  eggs  which 
sink  to  the  bottom  and  grow  up  into  the  plant-like 
hydroids.  So  each  generation  of  these  interesting 
creatures  is  entirely  unlike  that  which  immedi- 
ately precedes  or  follows  it.  In  other  words,  a 
hydroid  is  exactly  like  its  grandmother  and  grand- 
daughter, but  as  different  from  its  parents  and 
children  in  appearance  as  a  plant  is  from  an  ani- 
mal. Even  in  a  fairy-story  book  this  would  be 
wonderful,  but  here  it  is  taking  place  under  our 
very  eyes,  as  are  scores  of  other  transformations 
and  " miracles  in  miniature"  in  this  marvellous 
underworld. 

Now  let  us  deliberately  pass  by  all  the  attrac- 
tions of  the  middle  zone  of  tide-pools  and  on  as 
far  as  the  lowest  level  of  the  water  will  admit. 
We  are  far  out  from  the  shore  and  many  feet 
below  the  level  of  the  barnacle-covered  boulders 
over  which  we  first  clambered.  Now  we  may 
indeed  be  prepared  for  strange  sights,  for  we  are 
on  the  very  border-land  of  the  vast  unknown.  The 
abyss  in  front  of  us  is  like  planetary  space,  un- 
known to  the  feet  of  man.  While  we  know  the  lat- 
ter by  scant  glimpses  through  our  telescopes,  the 
former  has  only  been  scratched  by  the  hauls  of 


154  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

the  dredge,  the  mark  of  whose  iron  shoe  is  like  the 
tiny  track  of  a  snail  on  the  leaf  mould  of  a  vast 
forest. 

The  first  plunge  beneath  the  icy  waters  of 
Fundy  is  likely  to  remain  long  in  one's  memory, 
and  one's  first  dive  of  short  duration,  but  the 
glimpse  which  is  had  and  the  hastily  snatched 
handfuls  of  specimens  of  the  beauties  which  no 
tide  ever  uncovers  is  potent  to  make  one  forget 
his  shivering  and  again  and  again  seek  to  pene- 
trate as  far  as  a  good-sized  stone  and  a  lungful 
of  air  will  carry  him.  Strange  sensations  are  ex- 
perienced in  these  aquatic  scrambles.  It  takes  a 
long  time  to  get  used  to  pulling  oneself  downward, 
or  propping  your  knees  against  the  under  crevices 
of  rocks.  To  all  intents  and  purposes,  the  law  of 
gravitation  is  partly  suspended,  and  when  stone 
and  wooden  wedge  accidentally  slip  from  one's 
hand  and  disappear  in  opposite  directions,  it  is 
confusing,  to  say  the  least. 

When  working  in  one  spot  for  some  time  the 
fishes  seem  to  become  used  to  one,  and  approach 
quite  closely.  Slick-looking  pollock,  bloated  lump- 
fish,  and  occasionally  a  sombre  dog-fish  rolls  by, 
giving  one  a  start,  as  the  memory  of  pictures  of 
battles  between  divers  and  sharks  of  tropical  wa- 
ters comes  to  mind.  One's  mental  impressions 
made  thus  are  somewhat  disconnected.  With  the 
blood  buzzing  in  the  ears,  it  is  only  possible  to 
snatch  general  glimpses  and  superficial  details. 


SECRETS  OF  THE  OCEAN  155 

Then  at  the  surface,  notes  can  be  made,  and  speci- 
mens which  have  been  overlooked,  felt  for  during 
the  next  trip  beneath  the  surface.  Fronds  of 
laminaria  yards  in  length,  like  sheets  of  rubber, 
offer  convenient  holds,  and  at  their  roots  many 
curious  creatures  make  their  home.  Serpent  star- 
fish, agile  as  insects  and  very  brittle,  are  abun- 
dant, and  new  forms  of  worms,  like  great  slugs, — 
their  backs  covered  with  gills  in  the  form  of  tufted 
branches. 

In  these  outer,  eternally  submerged  regions  are 
starfish  of  still  other  shapes,  some  with  a  dozen 
or  more  arms.  I  took  one  with  thirteen  rays  and 
placed  it  temporarily  in  a  pool  aquarium  with 
some  large  anemones.  On  returning  in  an  hour 
or  two  I  found  the  starfish  trying  to  make  a  meal 
of  the  largest  anemone.  Hundreds  of  dart-covered 
strings  had  been  pushed  out  by  the  latter  in  de- 
fence, but  they  seemed  to  cause  the  starfish  no 
inconvenience  whatever. 

In  my  submarine  glimpses  I  saw  spaces  free 
from  seaweed  on  which  hundreds  of  tall  polyps 
were  growing,  some  singly,  others  in  small  tufts. 
The  solitary  individuals  rise  three  or  four  inches 
by  a  nearly  straight  stalk,  surmounted  by  a  many- 
tentacled  head.  This  droops  gracefully  to  one 
side  and  the  general  effect  is  that  of  a  bed  of 
rose-coloured  flowers.  From  the  heads  hang 
grape-like  masses,  which  on  examination  in  a 
tumbler  are  seen  to  be  immature  medusae.  Each 


156  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

of  these  develop  to  the  point  where  the  four  radi- 
ating canals  are  discernible  and  then  their  growth 
comes  to  a  standstill,  and  they  never  attain  the 
freedom  for  which  their  structure  fits  them. 

When  the  wind  blew  inshore,  I  would  often  find 
the  water  fairly  alive  with  large  sun- jellies  or 
Aurelia— their  Latin  name.  Their  great  milky- 
white  bodies  would  come  heaving  along  and  bump 
against  me,  giving  a  very  "crawly"  sensation. 
The  circle  of  short  tentacles  and  the  four  horse- 
shoe-shaped ovaries  distinguish  this  jelly-fish 
from  all  others.  When  I  had  gone  down  as  far 
as  I  dared,  I  would  sometimes  catch  glimpses  of 
these  strange  beings  far  below  me,  passing  and 
repassing  in  the  silence  and  icy  coldness  of  the 
watery  depths.  These  large  medusas  are  often 
very  abundant  after  a  favourable  wind  has  blown 
for  a  few  days,  and  I  have  rowed  through  masses 
of  them  so  thick  that  it  seemed  like  rowing  through 
thick  jelly,  two  or  three  feet  deep.  In  an  area  the 
length  of  the  boat  and  about  a  yard  wide,  I  have 
counted  over  one  hundred  and  fifty  Aurelias  on 
the  surface  alone. 

When  one  of  these  "sun-fish,"  as  the  fishermen 
call  them,  is  lifted  from  the  water,  the  clay- 
coloured  eggs  may  be  seen  to  stream  from  it  in 
myriads.  In  many  jellies,  small  bodies  the  size  of 
a  pea  are  visible  in  the  interior  of  the  mass,  and 
when  extracted  they  prove  to  be  a  species  of  small 
shrimp.  These  are  well  adapted  for  their  quasi- 


SECRETS  OF  THE  OCEAN  157 

parasitic  life,  in  colour  being  throughout  of  the 
same  milky  semi-opaqueness  as  their  host,  but  one 
very  curious  thing  about  them  is,  that  when  taken 
out  and  placed  in  some  water  in  a  vial  or  tumbler 
they  begin  to  turn  darker  almost  immediately,  and 
in  five  minutes  all  will  be  of  various  shades,  from 
red  to  a  dark  brown. 

I  had  no  fear  of  Aurdia,  but  when  another  free- 
swimming  species  of  jelly-fish,  Cyanea,  or  the 
blue-jelly,  appeared,  I  swam  ashore  with  all  speed. 
This  great  jelly  is  usually  more  of  a  reddish  liver- 
colour  than  a  purple,  and  is  much  to  be  dreaded. 
Its  tentacles  are  of  enormous  length.  I  have  seen 
specimens  which  measured  two  feet  across  the 
disc,  with  streamers  fully  forty  feet  long,  and  one 
has  been  recorded  seven  feet  across  and  no  less 
than  one  hundred  and  twelve  feet  to  the  tip  of  the 
cruel  tentacles!  These  trail  behind  in  eight 
bunches  and  form  a  living,  tangled  labyrinth  as 
deadly  as  the  hair  of  the  fabled  Medusa — whose 
name  indeed  has  been  so  appropriately  applied  to 
this  division  of  animals.  The  touch  of  each  ten- 
tacle to  the  skin  is  like  a  lash  of  nettle,  and  there 
would  be  little  hope  for  a  diver  whose  path  crossed 
such  a  fiery  tangle.  The  untold  myriads  of  little 
darts  which  are  shot  out  secrete  a  poison  which  is 
terribly  irritating. 

On  the  crevice  bottoms  a  sight  now  and  then 
meets  my  eyes  which  brings  the  "devil-fish"  of 
Victor  Hugo's  romance  vividly  to  mind, — a  mis- 


158  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

sliapen  squid  making  its  way  snakily  over  the 
shells  and  seaweed.  Its  large  eyes  gaze  fixedly 
around  and  the  arms  reach  alternately  forward, 
the  sucking  cups  lined  with  their  cruel  teeth  clos- 
ing over  the  inequalities  of  the  bottom.  The  crea- 
ture may  suddenly  change  its  mode  of  progression 
and  shoot  like  an  arrow,  backward  and  upward. 
If  we  watch  one  in  its  passage  over  areas  of  sea- 
weed and  sand,  a  wonderful  adaptation  becomes 
apparent.  Its  colour  changes  continually;  when 
near  sand  it  is  of  a  sombre  brown  hue,  then  blushes 
of  colour  pass  over  it  and  the  tint  changes,  corre- 
sponding to  the  seaweed  or  patches  of  pink  sponge 
over  which  it  swims.  The  way  in  which  this  is 
accomplished  is  very  ingenious  and  loses  nothing 
by  examination.  Beneath  the  skin  are  numerous 
cells  filled  with  liquid  pigment.  When  at  rest 
these  contract  until  they  are  almost  invisible,  ap- 
pearing as  very  small  specks  or  dots  on  the  sur- 
face of  the  body.  When  the  animal  wishes  to 
change  its  hue,  certain  muscles  which  radiate  from 
these  colour  cells  are  shortened,  drawing  the  cells 
out  in  all  directions  until  they  seem  confluent.  It 
is  as  if  the  freckles  on  a  person's  face  should  be 
all  joined  together,  when  an  ordinary  tan  would 
result. 

From  bottoms  ten  to  twenty  fathoms  below  the 
surface,  deeper  than  mortal  eye  can  probably  ever 
hope  to  reach,  the  dredge  brings  up  all  manner  of 


SECRETS  OF  THE  OCEAN  159 

curious  things ;  basket  starfish,  with  arms  divided 
and  subdivided  into  many  tendrils,  on  the  tips  of 
which  it  walks,  the  remaining  part  converging  up- 
ward like  the  trellis  of  a  vine-covered  summer 
house.  Sponges  of  many  hues  must  fairly  carpet 
large  areas  of  the  deep  water,  as  the  dredge  is 
often  loaded  with  them.  The  small  shore-loving 
ones  which  I  photographed  are  in  perfect  health, 
but  the  camera  cannot  show  the  many  tiny  cur- 
rents of  water  pouring  in  food  and  oxygen  at  the 
smaller  openings,  and  returning  in  larger  streams 
from  the  tall  funnels  on  the  surface  of  the  sponge, 
which  a  pinch  of  carmine  dust  reveals  so  beauti- 
fully. From  the  deeper  aquatic  gardens  come  up 
great  orange  and  yellow  sponges,  two  and  three 
feet  in  length,  and  around  the  bases  of  these  the 
weird  serpent  stars  are  clinging,  while  crabs 
scurry  away  as  the  mass  reaches  the  surface  of 
the  water. 

Treasures  from  depths  of  forty  and  even  fifty 
fathoms  can  be  obtained  when  a  trip  is  taken  with 
the  trawl-men.  One  can  sit  fascinated  for  hours, 
watching  the  hundreds  of  yards  of  line  reel  in, 
with  some  interesting  creature  on  each  of  the 
thirty-seven  hundred  odd  hooks.  At  times  a 
glance  down  into  the  clear  water  will  show  a  score 
of  fish  in  sight  at  once,  hake,  haddock,  cod,  hali- 
but, dog-fish,  and  perhaps  an  immense  "barn- 
door" skate,  a  yard  or  more  square.  This  latter 


160  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

will  hold  back  with  frantic  flaps  of  its  great 
"wings,"  and  tax  all  the  strength  of  the  sturdy 
Acadian  fishermen  to  pull  it  to  the  gunwale. 

Now  and  then  a  huge  " meat-rock/'  the  fisher- 
men's apt  name  for  an  anemone,  comes  up,  im- 
paled on  a  hook,  and  still  clinging  to  a  stone  of  five 
to  ten  pounds  weight.  These  gigantic  scarlet  ones 
from  full  fifty  fathoms  far  surpass  any  near  shore. 
Occasionally  the  head  alone  of  a  large  fish  will 
appear,  with  the  entire  body  bitten  clean  off,  a 
hint  of  the  monsters  which  must  haunt  the  lower 
depths.  The  pressure  of  the  air  must  be  exces- 
sive, for  many  of  the  fishes  have  their  swimming 
bladders  fairly  forced  out  of  their  mouths  by  the 
lessening  of  atmospheric  pressure  as  they  are 
drawn  to  the  surface.  When  a  basket  starfish 
finds  one  of  the  baits  in  that  sunless  void  far  be- 
neath our  boat,  he  hugs  it  so  tenaciously  that  the 
upward  jerks  of  the  reel  only  make  him  hold  the 
more  tightly. 

Once  in  a  great  while  the  fishermen  find  what 
they  call  a  "knob-fish"  on  one  of  their  hooks,  and 
I  never  knew  what  they  meant  until  one  day  a 
small  colony  of  five  was  brought  ashore.  Boltenia, 
the  scientists  call  them,  tall,  queer-shaped  things ; 
a  stalk  six  to  eight  inches  in  length,  with  a  knob 
or  oblong  bulb-like  body  at  the  summit,  looking 
exactly  like  the  flower  of  a  lady-slipper  orchid  and 
as  delicately  coloured.  This  is  a  member  of  that 
curious  family  of  Ascidians,  which  forever 


SECRETS  OF  THE  OCEAN  161 

trembles  in  the  balance  between  the  higher  back- 
boned animals  and  the  lower  division,  where  are 
classified  the  humbler  insects,  crabs,  and  snails. 
The  young  of  Boltenia  promises  everything  in  its 
tiny  backbone  or  notochord,  but  it  all  ends  in 
promise,  for  that  shadow  of  a  great  ambition 
withers  away,  and  the  creature  is  doomed  to  a 
lowly  and  vegetative  life.  If  we  soften  the  hard 
scientific  facts  which  tell  us  of  these  dumb,  blind 
creatures,  with  the  humane  mellowing  thought  of 
the  oneness  of  all  life,  we  will  find  much  that  is 
pathetic  and  affecting  in  their  humble  biographies 
from  our  point  of  view.  And  yet  these  cases  of 
degeneration  are  far  from  anything  like  actual 
misfortunes,  or  mishaps  of  nature,  as  Buffon  was 
so  fond  of  thinking.  These  creatures  have  found 
their  adult  mode  of  life  more  free  from  competi- 
tion than  any  other,  and  hence  their  adoption  of 
it.  It  is  only  another  instance  of  exquisite  adapta- 
tion to  an  unfilled  niche  in  the  life  of  the  world. 

Yet  another  phase  of  enjoying  the  life  of  these 
northern  waters;  the  one  which  comes  after  all 
the  work  and  play  of  collecting  is  over  for  the 
day,  after  the  last  specimen  is  given  a  fresh  sup- 
ply of  water  for  the  night,  and  the  final  note  in  our 
journal  is  written.  Then,  as  dusk  falls,  we  make 
our  way  to  the  beach,  ship  our  rudder  and  oars 
and  push  slowly  along  shore,  or  drift  quietly  with 
the  tide.  The  stars  may  come  out  in  clear  splen- 
dour and  the  visual  symphony  of  the  northern 


162  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

lights  play  over  the  dark  vault  above  us,  or  all 
may  be  obscured  in  lowering,  leaden  clouds.  But 
the  lights  of  the  sea  are  never  obscured — they 
always  shine  with  a  splendour  which  keeps  one 
entranced  for  hours. 

At  night  the  ripples  and  foam  of  the  Fundy 
shores  seem  transformed  to  molten  silver  and 
gold,  and  after  each  receding  wave  the  emerald 
seaweed  is  left  dripping  with  millions  of  spar- 
kling lights,  shining  with  a  living  lustre  which 
would  pale  the  brightest  gem.  Each  of  these 
countless  sparks  is  a  tiny  animal,  as  perfect  in  its 
substance  and  as  well  adapted  to  its  cycle  of  life 
as  the  highest  created  being.  The  wonderful  way 
in  which  this  phosphorescence  permeates  every- 
thing— the  jelly-fish  seeming  elfish  fireworks  as 
they  throb  through  the  water  with  rhythmic  beats 
— the  fish  brilliantly  lighted  up  and  plainly  visible 
as  they  dart  about  far  beneath  the  surface — makes 
such  a  night  on  the  Bay  of  Fundy  an  experience 
to  be  always  remembered. 

Like  the  tints  on  a  crescent  sea  beach 

When  the  moon  is  new  and  thin, 
Into  our  hearts  high  yearnings 

Come  welling  and  surging  in — 
Come,  from  the  mystic  ocean, 

Whose  rim  no  foot  has  trod— 
Some  of  us  call  it  longing, 

And  others  call  it  God. 

W.  H.  CAEEUTH. 


JULY 


BIRDS  IN  A  CITY 

WE  frequently  hear  people  say  that  if  only 
they  lived  in  the  country  they  would  take 
up  the  study  of  birds  with  great  interest,  but  that 
a  city  life  prevented  any  nature  study.  To  show 
how  untrue  this  is,  I  once  made  a  census  of  wild 
birds  which  were  nesting  in  the  New  York 
Zoological  Park,  which  is  situated  within  the 
limits  of  New  York  City.  Part  of  the  Park  is 
wooded,  while  much  space  is  given  up  to  the  col- 
lections of  birds  and  animals.  Throughout  the 
year  thousands  of  people  crowd  the  walks  and 
penetrate  to  every  portion  of  the  grounds ;  yet  in 
spite  of  this  lack  of  seclusion  no  fewer  than  sixty- 
one  species  build  their  nests  here  and  successfully 
rear  their  young.  The  list  was  made  without 
shooting  a  single  bird  and  in  each  instance  the 
identification  was  absolute.  This  shows  what  a 
little  protection  will  accomplish,  while  many 
places  of  equal  area  in  the  country  which  are  har- 
ried by  boys  and  cats  are  tenanted  by  a  bare 
dozen  species. 

Let  us  see  what  a  walk  in  late  June,  or  espe- 
cially in  July,  will  show  of  these  bold  invaders  of 
our  very  city.  "Wild  wood  ducks  frequently  decoy 
to  the  flocks  of  pinioned  birds  and  sometimes  mate 
with  some  of  them.  One  year  a  wild  bird  chose  as 

165 


166  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

its  mate  a  little  brown  female,  a  pinioned  bird,  and 
refused  to  desert  her  even  when  the  brood  of  sum- 
mer ducklings  was  being  caught  and  pinioned. 
Such  devotion  is  rare  indeed. 

In  the  top  of  one  of  the  most  inaccessible  trees 
in  the  Park  a  great  rough  nest  of  sticks  shows 
where  a  pair  of  black-crowned  night  herons  have 
made  their  home  for  years,  and  from  the  pale 
green  eggs  hatch  the  most  awkward  of  nestling 
herons,  which  squawk  and  grow  to  their  prime,  on 
a  diet  of  small  fish.  "When  they  are  able  to  fly 
they  pay  frequent  visits  to  their  relations  in  the 
great  flying  cage,  perching  on  the  top  and  gazing 
with  longing  eyes  at  the  abundant  feasts  of  fish 
which  are  daily  brought  by  the  keepers  to  their 
charges.  This  duck  and  heron  are  the  only  ones 
of  their  orders  thus  to  honour  the  Park  by  nesting, 
although  a  number  of  other  species  are  not  uncom- 
mon during  the  season  of  migration. 

Of  the  waders  which  in  the  spring  and  fall 
teeter  along  the  bank  of  the  Bronx  River,  only  a 
pair  or  two  of  spotted  sandpipers  remain  through- 
out the  nesting  period,  content  to  lay  their  eggs 
in  some  retired  spot  in  the  corner  of  a  field,  where 
there  is  the  least  danger  to  them  and  to  the  fluffy 
balls  of  long-legged  down  which  later  appear  and 
scurry  about.  The  great  horned  owl  and  the  red- 
tailed  hawk  formerly  nested  in  the  park,  but  the 
frequent  noise  of  blasting  and  the  building  opera- 
tions have  driven  them  to  more  isolated  places, 


BIRDS  IN  A  CITY  167 

and  of  their  relatives  there  remain  only  the  little 
screech  owls  and  the  sparrow  hawks.  The  latter 
feed  chiefly  upon  English  sparrows  and  hence  are 
worthy  of  the  most  careful  protection. 

These  birds  should  be  encouraged  to  build  near 
our  homes,  and  if  not  killed  or  driven  away  some- 
times choose  the  eaves  of  our  houses  as  their  domi- 
ciles and  thus,  by  invading  the  very  haunts  of  the, 
sparrows,  they  would  speedily  lessen  their  num- 
bers. A  brood  of  five  young  hawks  was  recently 
taken  from  a  nest  under  the  eaves  of  a  school- 
house  in  this  city.  I  immediately  took  this  as  a 
text  addressed  to  the  pupils,  and  the  principal 
was  surprised  to  learn  that  these  birds  were  so 
valuable.  In  the  Park  the  sparrow  hawks  nest  in 
a  hollow  tree,  as  do  the  screech  owls. 

Other  most  valuable  birds  which  nest  in  the 
Park  are  the  black-billed  and  yellow-billed 
cuckoos,  whose  depredations  among  the  hairy  and 
spiny  caterpillars  should  arouse  our  gratitude. 
For  these  insects  are  refused  by  almost  all  other 
birds,  and  were  it  not  for  these  slim,  graceful  crea- 
tures they  would  increase  to  prodigious  numbers. 
Their  two  or  three  light  blue  eggs  are  always  laid 
on  the  frailest  of  frail  platforms  made  of  a  few 
sticks.  The  belted  kingfisher  bores  into  the  bank 
of  the  river  and  rears  his  family  of  six  or  eight  in 
the  dark,  ill-odoured  chamber  at  the  end.  Young 
cuckoos  and  kingfishers  are  the  quaintest  of  young 
birds.  Their  plumage  does  not  come  out  a  little 


168  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

at  a  time,  as  in  other  nestlings,  but  the  sheaths 
which  surround  the  growing  feathers  remain  until 
they  are  an  inch  or  more  in  length ;  then  one  day, 
in  the  space  of  only  an  hour  or  so,  the  overlapping 
armour  of  bluish  tiles  bursts  and  the  plumage 
assumes  a  normal  appearance. 

The  little  black-and-white  downy  and  the  flicker 
are  the  two  woodpeckers  which  make  the  Park 
their  home.  Both  nest  in  hollows  bored  out  by 
their  strong  beaks,  but  although  full  of  splinters 
and  sawdust,  such  a  habitation  is  far  superior  to 
the  sooty  chimneys  in  which  the  young  chimney 
swifts  break  from  their  snow-white  eggs  and 
twitter  for  food.  How  impatiently  they  must  look 
up  at  the  blue  sky,  and  one  would  think  that  they 
musf  long  for  the  time  when  they  can  spread  their 
sickle-shaped  wings  and  dash  about  from  dawn 
to  dark!  Is  it  not  wonderful  that  one  of  them 
should  live  to  grow  up  when  we  think  of  the  frag- 
ile little  cup  which  is  their  home? — a  mosaic  of 
delicate  twigs  held  together  only  by  the  sticky 
saliva  of  the  parent  birds. 

A  relation  of  theirs — though  we  should  never 
guess  it — is  sitting  upon  her  tiny  air  castle  high 
up  in  an  apple  tree  not  far  away, — a  ruby-throated 
hummingbird.  If  we  take  a  peep  into  the  nest 
when  the  young  hummingbirds  are  only  partly 
grown,  we  shall  see  that  their  bills  are  broad  and 
stubby,  like  those  of  the  swifts.  Their  home,  how- 
ever, is  indeed  a  different  affair,— a  pinch  of 


BIRDS  IN  A  CITY  169 

plant-down  tied  together  with  cobwebs  and  stuc- 
coed with  lichens,  like  those  which  are  growing  all 
about  upon  the  tree.  If  we  do  not  watch  the  fe- 
male when  she  settles  to  her  young  or  eggs  we 
may  search  in  vain  for  this  tiniest  of  homes,  so 
closely  does  it  resemble  an  ordinary  knot  on  a 
branch. 

The  flycatchers  are  well  represented  in  the  Park, 
there  being  no  fewer  than  five  species;  the  least 
flycatcher,  wood  pewee,  phosbe,  crested  flycatcher, 
and  kingbird.  The  first  two  prefer  the  woods,  the 
phcebe  generally  selects  a  mossy  rock  or  a  bridge 
beam,  the  fourth  nests  in  a  hollow  tree  and  often 
decorates  its  home  with  a  snake-skin.  The  king- 
bird builds  an  untidy  nest  in  an  apple  tree.  Our 
American  crow  is,  of  course,  a  member  of  this 
little  community  of  birds,  and  that  in  spite  of 
persecution,  for  in  the  spring  one  or  two  are  apt 
to  contract  a  taste  for  young  ducklings  and  hence 
have  to  be  put  out  of  the  way.  The  fish  crow,  a 
smaller  cousin  of  the  big  black  fellow,  also  nests 
here,  easily  known  by  his  shriller,  higher  caw.  A 
single  pair  of  blue  jays  nest  in  the  Park,  but  the 
English  starling  occupies  every  box  which  is  put 
up  and  bids  fair  to  be  as  great  or  a  greater  nui- 
sance than  the  sparrow.  It  is  a  handsome  bird  and 
a  fine  whistler,  but  when  we  remember  how  this 
foreigner  is  slowly  but  surely  elbowing  our  native 
birds  out  of  their  rightful  haunts,  we  find  our- 
selves losing  sight  of  its  beauties.  The  cowbird, 


170  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

of  course,  imposes  her  eggs  upon  many  of  the 
smaller  species  of  birds,  while  our  beautiful  pur- 
ple grackle,  meadow  lark,  red-winged  blackbird, 
and  the  Baltimore  and  orchard  orioles  rear  their 
young  in  safety.  The  cardinal,  scarlet  tanager, 
indigo  bunting,  and  rose-breasted  grosbeak  form 
a  quartet  of  which  even  a  tropical  land  might  well 
be  proud,  and  the  two  latter  species  have,  in  addi- 
tion to  brilliant  plumage,  very  pleasing  songs. 
Such  wealth  of  aesthetic  characteristics  are  un- 
usual in  any  one  species,  the  wide-spread  law  of 
compensation  decreeing  otherwise.  More  sombre 
hued  seed-eaters  which  live  their  lives  in  the  Park 
are  towhees,  swamp,  song,  field,  and  chipping 
sparrows.  The  bank  and  barn  swallows  skim  over 
field  and  pond  all  through  the  summer,  gleaning 
their  insect  harvest  from  the  air,  and  building 
their  nests  in  the  places  from  which  they  have 
taken  their  names.  The  rare  rough- winged  swal- 
low deigns  to  linger  and  nest  in  the  Park  as  well 
as  do  his  more  common  brethren. 

The  dainty  pensile  nests  which  become  visible 
when  the  leaves  fall  in  the  autumn  are  swung  by 
four  species  of  vireos,  the  white-eyed,  red-eyed, 
warbling,  and  yellow-throated.  Of  the  interesting 
and  typically  North  American  family  of  wood 
warblers  I  have  numbered  no  fewer  than  eight 
which  nest  in  the  Park;  these  are  the  redstart, 
the  yellow-breasted  chat,  northern  yellow-throat, 
oven-bird,  the  yellow  warbler,  blue-winged,  black- 


BIRDS  IN  A  CITY  171 

and-white  creeping  warblers,  and  one  other  to  be 
mentioned  later. 

Injurious  insects  find  their  doom  when  the 
young  house  and  Carolina  wrens  are  on  the  wing. 
Catbirds  and  robins  are  among  the  most  abundant 
breeders,  while  chickadees  and  white-breasted 
nuthatches  are  less  often  seen.  The  bluebird 
haunts  the  hollow  apple  trees,  and  of  the  thrushes 
proper  the  veery  or  Wilson's  and  the  splendid 
wood  thrush  sing  to  their  mates  on  the  nests 
among  the  saplings. 

The  rarest  of  all  the  birds  which  I  have  found 
nesting  in  the  Park  is  a  little  yellow  and  green 
warbler,  with  a  black  throat  and  sides  of  the  face, 
known  as  the  Lawrence  warbler.  Only  a  few  of 
his  kind  have  ever  been  seen,  and  strange  to  say 
his  mate  was  none  other  than  a  demure  blue- 
winged  warbler.  His  nest  was  on  the  ground  and 
from  it  six  young  birds  flew  to  safety  and  not  to 
museum  drawers. 


NIGHT  MUSIC  OF  THE  SWAMP 

TO  many,  a  swamp  or  marsh  Brings  only  the 
very  practical  thought  of  whether  it  can  be 
readily  drained.  Let  us  rejoice,  however,  that 
many  marshes  cannot  be  thus  easily  wiped  out  of 
existence,  and  hence  they  remain  as  isolated  bits 
of  primeval  wilderness,  hedged  about  by  farms 
and  furrows.  The  water  is  the  life-blood  of  the 
marsh, — drain  it,  and  reed  and  rush,  bird  and 
batrachian,  perish  or  disappear.  The  marsh,  to 
him  who  enters  it  in  a  receptive  mood,  holds, 
besides  mosquitoes  and  stagnation, — melody,  the 
mystery  of  unknown  waters,  and  the  sweetness  of 
Nature  undisturbedly  man. 

The  ideal  marsh  is  as  far  as  one  can  go  from 
civilisation.  The  depths  of  a  wood  holds  its  undis- 
covered secrets;  the  mysterious  call  of  the  veery 
lends  a  wildness  that  even  to-day  has  not  ceased  to 
pervade  the  old  wood.  There  are  spots  overgrown 
with  fern  and  carpeted  with  velvety  wet  moss; 
here  also  the  skunk  cabbage  and  cowslip  grow 
rank  among  the  alders.  Surely  man  cannot  live 
near  this  place — but  the  tinkle  of  a  cowbell  comes 
faintly  on  the  gentle  stirring  breeze — and  our 
illusion  is  dispelled,  the  charm  is  broken. 

But  even  to-day,  when  we  push  the  punt  through 
the  reeds  from  the  clear  river  into  the  narrow, 

1T2 


NIGHT  MUSIC  OF  THE  SWAMP  173 

tortuous  channel  of  the  marsh,  we  have  left  civil- 
isation behind  us.  The  great  ranks  of  the  cat- 
tails shut  out  all  view  of  the  outside  world ;  the 
distant  sounds  of  civilisation  serve  only  to  accen- 
tuate the  isolation.  It  is  the  land  of  the  Indian, 
as  it  was  before  the  strange  white  man,  brought 
from  afar  in  great  white-sailed  ships,  came  to 
usurp  the  land  of  the  wondering  natives.  At  any 
moment  we  fancy  that  we  may  see  an  Indian  canoe 
silently  round  a  bend  in  the  channel. 

The  marsh  has  remained  unchanged  since  the 
days  when  the  Mohican  Indians  speared  fish  there. 
We  are  living  in  a  bygone  time.  A  little  green 
heron  flies  across  the  water.  How  wild  he  is; 
nothing  has  tamed  him.  He  also  is  the  same  now 
as  always.  He  does  not  nest  in  orchard  or 
meadow,  but  holds  himself  aloof,  making  no  con- 
cessions to  man  and  the  ever  increasing  spread  of 
his  civilisation.  He  does  not  come  to  his  doors 
for  food.  He  can  find  food  for  himself  and  in 
abundance ;  he  asks  only  to  be  let  alone.  Nor  does 
he  intrude  himself.  Occasionally  we  meet  him 
along  our  little  meadow  stream,  but  he  makes  no 
advances.  As  we  come  suddenly  upon  him,  how 
indignant  he  seems  at  being  disturbed  in  his 
hunting.  Like  the  Indian,  he  is  jealous  of  his  an- 
cient domain  and  resents  intrusion.  He  retires, 
however,  throwing  back  to  us  a  cry  of  disdain. 
Here  in  the  marsh  is  the  last  stand  of  primitive 
nature  in  the  settled  country;  here  is  the  last 


174  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

stronghold  of  the  untamed.  The  bulrushes  rise 
in  ranks,  like  the  spears  of  a  great  army,  sur- 
rounding and  guarding  the  colony  of  the  marsh. 

There  seems  to  be  a  kinship  between  the  voices 
of  the  marsh  dwellers.  Most  of  them  seem  to  have 
a  muddy,  aquatic  note.  The  boom  of  the  frog 
sounds  like  some  great  stone  dropped  into  the 
water;  the  little  marsh  wren's  song  is  the  "  babble 
and  tinkle  of  water  running  out  of  a  silver  flask." 

The  blackbird  seems  to  be  the  one  connecting 
link  between  the  highlands  and  the  lowlands. 
Seldom  does  one  see  other  citizens  of  the  marsh 
in  the  upland.  How  glorious  is  the  flight  of  a 
great  blue  heron  from  one  feeding-ground  to 
another !  He  does  not  tarry  over  the  foreign  ter- 
ritory, nor  does  he  hurry.  With  neck  and  head 
furled  close  and  legs  straight  out  behind,  he  pur- 
sues his  course,  swerving  neither  to  the  right  nor 
the  left. 

"Vainly  the  fowler's  eye 

Might  mark  thy  distant  flight  to  do  thee  wrong, 
As  darkly  painted  on  the  crimson  sky 
Thy  figure  floats  along." 

The  blackbirds,  however,  are  more  neighbourly. 
They  even  forage  in  the  foreign  territory,  return- 
ing at  night  to  sleep. 

In  nesting  time  the  red-wing  is  indeed  a  citizen 
of  the  lowland.  His  voice  is  as  distinctive  of  the 
marsh  as  is  the  croak  of  the  frog,  and  from  a 
distance  it  is  one  of  the  first  sounds  to  greet  ths 


NIGHT  MUSIC  OF  THE  SWAMP  175 

ear.  How  beautiful  is  his  clear  whistle  with  its 
liquid  break !  Indeed  one  may  say  that  he  is  the 
most  conspicuous  singer  of  the  marshlands.  His 
is  not  a  sustained  song,  but  the  exuberant  ex- 
pression of  a  happy  heart. 

According  to  many  writers  the  little  marsh 
wren  is  without  song.  No  song !  As  well  say  that 
the  farmer  boy's  whistling  as  he  follows  the 
plough,  or  the  sailor's  song  as  he  hoists  the  sail, 
is  not  music !  All  are  the  songs  of  the  lowly,  the 
melody  of  those  glad  to  be  alive  and  out  in  the 
free  air. 

When  man  goes  into  the  marsh,  the  marsh  re- 
tires within  itself,  as  a  turtle  'retreats  within  his 
shell.  With  the  exception  of  a  few  blackbirds  and 
marsh  wrens,  babbling  away  the  nest  secret,  and 
an  occasional  frog's  croak,  all  the  inhabitants 
have  stealthily  retired.  The  spotted  turtle  has 
slid  from  the  decayed  log  as  the  boat  pushed 
through  the  reeds.  At  our  approach  the  heron 
has  flown  and  the  little  Virginia  rail  has  scuttled 
away  among  the  reeds. 

Remain  perfectly  quiet,  however,  and  give  the 
marsh  time  to  regain  its  composure.  One  by  one 
the  tenants  of  the  swamp  will  take  up  the  trend 
of  their  business  where  it  was  interrupted. 

All  about,  the  frogs  rest  on  the  green  carpet  of 
the  lily  pads,  basking  in  the  sun.  The  little  rail 
again  runs  among  the  reeds,  searching  for  food  in 
the  form  of  small  snails.  The  blackbirds  and 


176  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

wrens,  most  domestic  in  character,  go  busily  about 
their  home  business ;  the  turtles  again  come  up  to 
their  positions,  and  a  muskrat  swims  across  the 
channel.  One  hopes  that  the  little  colony  of  marsh 
wren  homes  on  stilts  above  the  water,  like  the 
ancient  lake  dwellers  of  Tenochtitlan,  may  have 
no  enemies.  But  the  habit  of  building  dummy 
nests  is  suggestive  that  the  wee  birds  are  pitting 
their  wits  against  the  cunning  of  some  enemy,— 
and  suspicion  rests  upon  the  serpent. 

As  evening  approaches  and  the  shadows  from 
the  bordering  wood  point  long  fingers  across  the 
marsh,  the  blackbirds  straggle  back  from  their 
feeding-grounds  and  settle,  clattering,  among  the 
reeds.  Their  clamour  dies  gradually  away  and 
night  settles  down  upon  the  marsh. 


All  sounds  have  ceased  save  the  booming  of  the 
frogs,  which  but  emphasises  the  loneliness  of  it 
all.  A  distant  whistle  of  a  locomotive  dispels  the 
idea  that  all  the  world  is  wilderness.  The  firefly 
lamps  glow  along  the  margin  of  the  rushes.  The 
frogs  are  now  in  full  chorus,  the  great  bulls  beat- 
ing their  tom-toms  and  the  small  fry  filling  in  the 
chinks  with  shriller  cries.  How  remote  the  scene 
and  how  melancholy  the  chorus ! 

To  one  mind  there  is  a  quality  in  the  frogs' 
serenade  that  strikes  the  chord  of  sadness,  to 


NIGHT  MUSIC  OF  THE  SWAMP  177 

another  the  chord  of  contentment,  to  still  another 
it  is  the  chant  of  the  savage,  just  as  the  hoot  of 
an  owl  or  the  bark  of  a  fox  brings  vividly  to  mind 
the  wilderness. 

Out  of  the  night  comes  softly  the  croon  of  a 
little  screech  owl — that  cry  almost  as  ancient  as 
the  hills.  It  belongs  with  the  soil  beneath  our 
towns.  It  is  the  spirit  of  the  past  crying  to  us. 
So  the  dirge  of  the  frog  is  the  cry  of  the  spirit  of 
river  and  marshland. 

Our  robins  and  bluebirds  are  of  the  orchard 
and  the  home  of  man,  but  who  can  claim  neigh- 
bourship to  the  bittern  or  the  bullfrog?  There  is 
nothing  of  civilisation  in  the  hoarse  croak  of  the 
great  blue  heron.  These  are  all  barbarians  and 
their  songs  are  of  the  untamed  wilderness. 

The  moon  rises  over  the  hills.  The  mosquitoes 
have  become  savage.  The  marsh  has  tolerated  us 
as  long  as  it  cares  to,  and  we  beat  our  retreat. 
The  night  hawks  swoop  down  and  boom  as  they 
pass  overhead.  One  feels  thankful  that  the  mos- 
quitoes are  of  some  good  in  furnishing  food  to 
so  graceful  a  bird. 

A  water  snake  glides  across  the  channel,  leav- 
ing a  silver  wake  in  the  moonlight.  The  frogs 
plunk  into  the  water  as  we  push  past.  A  night 
heron  rises  from  the  margin  of  the  river  and 
slowly  flops  away.  The  bittern  booms  again  as 
we  row  down  the  peaceful  river,  and  we  leave  the 
marshland  to  its  ancient  and  rightful  owners. 


178  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

And  the  marsh  is  meshed  with  a  million  veins, 
That  like  as  with  rosy  and  silvery  essences  flow 
In  the  rose  and  silver  evening  glow. 
Farewell,  my  lord  Sun ! 
The  creeks  overflow;  a  thousand  rivulets  run 
'Twixt  the  roots  of  the  sod;  the  blades  of  the  marsh  grass  stir; 
Passeth  a  hurrying  sound  of  wings  that  westward  whirr. 

SIDNEY  LANIER. 


THE  COMING  OF  MAN 

IP  we  betake  ourselves  to  the  heart  of  the  deep- 
est forests  which  are  still  left  upon  our  north- 
ern  hills,  and  compare  the  bird  life  which  we  find 
there  with  that  in  the  woods  and  fields  near  our 
homes,  we  shall  at  once  notice  a  great  difference. 
Although  the  coming  of  mankind  with  his  axe  and 
plough  has  driven  many  birds  and  animals  far 
away  or  actually  exterminated  them,  there  are 
many  others  which  have  so  thrived  under  the  new 
conditions  that  they  are  far  more  numerous  than 
when  the  tepees  of  the  red  men  alone  broke  the 
monotony  of  the  forest. 

We  might  walk  all  day  in  the  primitive  woods 
and  never  see  or  hear  a  robin,  while  in  an  hour's 
stroll  about  a  village  we  can  count  scores.  Let 
us  observe  how  some  of  these  quick-witted  feath- 
ered beings  have  taken  advantage  of  the  way  in 
which  man  is  altering  the  whole  face  of  the  land. 

A  pioneer  comes  to  a  spot  in  the  virgin  forest 
which  pleases  him  and  proceeds  at  once  to  cut 
down  the  trees  in  order  to  make  a  clearing.  The 
hermit  thrush  soothes  his  labour  with  its  wonder- 
ful song ;  the  pileated  woodpecker  pounds  its  dis- 
approval upon  a  near-by  hollow  tree ;  the  deer  and 
wolf  take  a  last  look  out  through  the  trees  and 
flee  from  the  spot  forever.  A  house  and  barn 

179 


180  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

arise;  fields  become  covered  with  waving  grass 
and  grain;  a  neglected  patch  of  burnt  forest  be- 
comes a  tangle  of  blackberry  and  raspberry;  an 
orchard  is  set  out. 

When  the  migrating  birds  return,  they  are  at- 
tracted to  this  new  scene.  The  decaying  wood  of 
fallen  trees  is  a  paradise  for  ants,  flies,  and  bee- 
tles ;  offering  to  swallows,  creepers,  and  flycatch- 
ers feasts  of  abundance  never  dreamed  of  in  the 
primitive  forests.  Straightway,  what  must  have 
been  a  cave  swallow  becomes  a  barn  swallow ;  the 
haunter  of  rock  ledges  changes  to  an  eave  swal- 
low; the  nest  in  the  niche  of  the  cliff  is  deserted 
and  pho3be  becomes  a  bridgebird;  cedarbirds  are 
renamed  cherrybirds,  and  catbirds  and  other  low- 
nesting  species  find  the  blackberry  patch  safer 
than  the  sweetbrier  vine  in  the  deep  woods.  The 
swift  leaves  the  lightning-struck  hollow  tree 
where  owl  may  harry  or  snake  intrude,  for  the 
chimney  flue — sooty  but  impregnable. 

"When  the  great  herds  of  ruminants  disappear 
from  the  western  prairies,  the  buffalo  birds  with- 
out hesitation  become  cowbirds,  and  when  the 
plough  turns  up  the  never-ending  store  of  grubs 
and  worms  the  birds  lose  all  fear  and  follow  at 
the  very  heels  of  the  plough-boy :  grackles,  vesper 
sparrows,  and  larks  in  the  east,  and  flocks  of  gulls 
farther  to  the  westward. 

The  crow  surpasses  all  in  the  keen  wit  which  it 
pits  against  human  invasion  and  enmity.  The 


THE  COMING  OF  MAN  181 

farmer  declares  war  (all  unjustly)  against  these 
sable  natives,  but  they  jeer  at  his  gun  and  traps 
and  scarecrows,  and  thrive  on,  killing  the  noxious 
insects,  devouring  the  diseased  corn-sprouts, — 
doing  great  good  to  the  farmer  in  spite  of  himself. 
The  story  of  these  sudden  adaptations  to  con- 
ditions which  the  birds  could  never  have  foreseen 
is  a  story  of  great  interest  and  it  has  been  but  half 
told.  Climb  the  nearest  hill  or  mountain  or  even,  a 
tall  tree  and  look  out  upon  the  face  of  the  country. 
Keep  in  mind  you  are  a  bird  and  not  a  human, — 
you  neither  know  nor  understand  anything  of 
the  reason  for  these  strange  sights, — these  bipeds 
who  cover  the  earth  with  great  square  structures, 
who  scratch  the  ground  for  miles,  who  later  gnaw 
the  vegetation  with  great  shining  teeth,  and  who 
are  only  too  often  on  the  look  out  to  bring  sudden 
death  if  one  but  show  a  feather.  What  would  you 
do! 


THE  SILENT  LANGUAGE  OF  ANIMALS 

WHAT  a  great  difference  there  is  in  bril- 
liancy of  colouring  between  birds  and  the 
furry  creatures.  How  the  plumage  of  a  cardinal, 
or  indigo  bunting,  or  hummingbird  glows  in  the 
sunlight,  and  reflects  to  our  eyes  the  most  intense 
vermilion  or  indigo  or  an  iridescence  of  the  whole 
gamut  of  colour.  On  the  other  hand,  how  som- 
brely clad  are  the  deer,  the  rabbits,  and  the  mice ; 
gray  and  brown  and  white  being  the  usual  hue  of 
their  fur. 

This  difference  is  by  no  means  accidental,  but 
has  for  its  cause  a  deep  significance, — all-impor- 
tant to  the  life  of  the  bird  or  mammal.  Scientists 
have  long  known  of  it,  and  if  we  unlock  it  from 
its  hard  sheathing  of  technical  terms,  we  shall 
find  it  as  simple  and  as  easy  to  understand  as  it 
is  interesting.  When  we  once  hold  the  key,  it  will 
seem  as  if  scales  had  fallen  from  our  eyes,  and 
when  we  take  our  walks  abroad  through  the  fields 
and  woods,  when  we  visit  a  zoological  park,  or 
even  see  the  animals  in  a  circus,  we  shall  feel  as 
though  a  new  world  were  opened  to  us. 

No  post  offices,  or  even  addresses,  exist  for 
birds  and  mammals;  when  the  children  of  the 
desert  or  the  jungle  are  lost,  no  detective  or 
policeman  hastens  to  find  them,  no  telephone  or 

182 


THE  SILENT  LANGUAGE  OF  ANIMALS     183 

telegraph  aids  in  the  search.  Yet,  without  any 
of  these  accessories,  the  wild  creatures  have  mar- 
vellous systems  of  communication.  The  five 
senses  (and  perhaps  a  mysterious  sixth,  at  which 
we  can  only  guess)  are  the  telephones  and  the 
police,  the  automatic  sentinels  and  alarms  of  our 
wild  kindred.  Most  inferior  are  our  own  abilities 
in  using  eyes,  nose,  and  ears,  when  compared 
with  the  same  functions  in  birds  and  animals. 

Eyes  and  noses  are  important  keys  to  the  bright 
colours  of  birds  and  comparative  sombreness  of 
hairy-coated  creatures.  Take  a  dog  and  an  oriole 
as  good  examples  of  the  two  extremes.  "When  a 
dog  has  lost  his  master,  he  first  looks  about ;  then 
he  strains  his  eyes  with  the  intense  look  of  a  near- 
sighted person,  and  after  a  few  moments  of  this 
he  usually  yelps  with  disappointment,  drops  his 
nose  to  the  ground,  and  with  unfailing  accuracy 
follows  the  track  of  his  master.  When  the  fresh- 
ness of  the  trail  tells  him  that  he  is  near  its  end 
he  again  resorts  to  his  eyes,  and  is  soon  near 
enough  to  recognise  the  face  he  seeks.  A  fox 
when  running  before  a  hound  may  double  back, 
and  make  a  close  reconnaissance  near  his  trail, 
sometimes  passing  in  full  view  without  the 
hound's  seeing  him  or  stopping  in  following  out 
the  full  curve  of  the  trail,  so  completely  does  the 
wonderful  power  of  smell  absorb  the  entire  atten- 
tion of  the  dog. 

Let  us  now  turn  to  the  oriole.    As  we  might 


184  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

infer,  the  nostrils  incased  in  horn  render  the  sense 
of  smell  of  but  slight  account.  It  is  hard  to  tell 
how  much  a  bird  can  distinguish  in  this  way— -. 
probably  only  the  odour  of  food  near  at  hand. 
However,  when  we  examine  the  eye  of  our  bird, 
we  see  a  sense  organ  of  a  very  high  order. 
Bright,  intelligent,  full-circled,  of  great  size  com- 
pared to  the  bulk  of  the  skull,  protected  by  three 
complete  eyelids;  we  realise  that  this  must  play 
an  important  part  in  the  life  of  the  bird.  There 
are,  of  course,  many  exceptions  to  such  a  general- 
isation as  this.  For  instance,  many  species  of 
sparrows  are  dull-coloured.  We  must  remember 
that  the  voice — the  calls  and  songs  of  birds — is 
developed  to  a  high  degree,  and  in  many  instances 
renders  bright  colouring  needless  in  attracting 
a  mate  or  in  locating  a  young  bird. 

As  we  have  seen,  the  sense  of  smell  is  very 
highly  developed  among  four-footed  animals,  but 
to  make  this  efficient  there  must  be  something  for 
it  to  act  upon ;  and  in  this  connection  we  find  some 
interesting  facts  of  which,  outside  of  scientific 
books,  little  has  been  written.  On  the  entire  body, 
birds  have  only  one  gland — the  oil  gland  above  the 
base  of  the  tail,  which  supplies  an  unctuous  dress- 
ing for  the  feathers.  Birds,  therefore,  have  not 
the  power  of  perspiring,  but  compensate  for  this 
by  very  rapid  breathing.  On  the  contrary,  four- 
footed  animals  have  glands  on  many  portions  of 


THE  SILENT  LANGUAGE  OF  ANIMALS     185 

the  body.  Nature  is  seldom  contented  with  the 
one  primary  function  which  an  organ  or  tissue 
performs,  but  adjusts  and  adapts  it  to  others  in 
many  ingenious  ways.  Hence,  when  an  animal 
perspires,  the  pores  of  the  skin  allow  the  con- 
tained moisture  to  escape  and  moisten  the  sur- 
face of  the  body ;  but  in  addition  to  this,  in  many 
animals,  collections  of  these  pores  in  the  shape 
of  large  glands  secrete  various  odours  which  serve 
important  uses.  In  the  skunk  such  a  gland  is  a 
practically  perfect  protection  against  attacks 
from  his  enemies.  He  never  hurries  and  seems 
not  to  know  what  fear  is — a  single  wave  of  his 
conspicuous  danger  signal  is  sufficient  to  clear 
his  path. 

In  certain  species  of  the  rhinoceros  there  are 
large  glands  in  the  foot.  These  animals  live 
among  grasi  and  herbage  which  they  brush 
against  as  they  walk,  and  thus  "blaze"  a  plain 
trail  for  the  mate  or  young  to  follow.  There  are 
few  if  any  animals  which  care  to  face  a  rhinoc- 
eros, so  the  scent  is  incidentally  useful  to  other 
creatures  as  a  warning. 

It  is  believed  that  the  hard  callosities  on  the 
legs  of  horses  are  the  remains  of  glands  which 
were  once  upon  a  time  useful  to  their  owners ;  and 
it  is  said  that  if  a  paring  from  one  of  these  hard, 
horny  structures  be  held  to  the  nose  of  a  horse,  he 
will  follow  it  about,  hinting,  perhaps,  that  in 


186  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

former  days  the  scent  from  the  gland  was  an  in- 
stinctive guide  which  kept  members  of  the  herd 
together. 

" Civet,"  which  is  obtained  from  the  civet  cat, 
and  "musk,"  from  the  queer  little  hornless  musk 
deer,  are  secretions  of  glands.  It  has  been  sug- 
gested that  the  defenceless  musk  deer  escapes 
many  of  its  enemies  by  the  similarity  of  its  secre- 
tion to  the  musky  odour  of  crocodiles.  In  many 
animals  which  live  together  in  herds,  such  as  the 
antelope  and  deer,  and  which  have  neither  bright 
colours  nor  far-reaching  calls  to  aid  straying 
members  to  regain  the  flock,  there  are  large  and 
active  scent  glands.  The  next  time  you  see  a 
live  antelope  in  a  zoological  park,  or  even  a 
stuffed  specimen,  look  closely  at  the  head,  and  be- 
tween the  eye  and  the  nostril  a  large  opening  will 
be  seen  on  each  side,  which,  in  the  living  animal, 
closes  now  and  then,  a  flap  of  skin  shutting  it 
tight. 

Among  pigs  the  fierce  peccary  is  a  very  social 
animal,  going  in  large  packs ;  and  on  the  back  of 
each  of  these  creatures  is  found  a  large  gland 
from  which  a  clear  watery  fluid  is  secreted.  Dogs 
and  wolves  also  have  their  odour-secreting  glands 
on  the  back,  and  the  "wolf -pack"  is  proverbial. 

The  gland  of  the  elephant  is  on  the  temple,  and 
secretes  only  when  the  animal  is  in  a  dangerous 
mood,  a  hint,  therefore,  of  opposite  significance 
to  that  of  the  herding  animals,  as  this  says,  "Let 


THE  SILENT  LANGUAGE  OF  ANIMALS     187 

me  alone!  stay  away!"  Certain  low  species  of 
monkeys,  the  lemurs,  have  a  remarkable  bare 
patch  on  the  forearm,  which  covers  a  gland  serv- 
ing some  use. 

If  we  marvel  at  the  keenness  of  scent  among 
animals,  how  incredible  seems  the  similar  sense 
in  insects — similar  in  function,  however  different 
the  medium  of  structure  may  be.  Think  of  the 
scent  from  a  female  moth,  so  delicate  that  we 
cannot  distinguish  it,  attracting  a  male  of  the 
same  species  from  a  distance  of  a  mile  or  more. 
Entomologists  sometimes  confine  a  live  female 
moth  or  other  insect  in  a  small  wire  cage  and 
hang  it  outdoors  in  the  evening,  and  in  a  short 
time  reap  a  harvest  of  gay-winged  suitors  which 
often  come  in  scores,  instinctively  following  up 
the  trail  of  the  delicate,  diffused  odour.  It  is 
surely  true  that  the  greatest  wonders  are  not 
always  associated  with  mere  bulk. 


INSECT  MUSIC 

AMONG  insects,  sounds  are  produced  in  many 
ways,  and  for  various  reasons.  A  species 
of  ant  which  makes  its  nest  on  the  under  side  of 
leaves  produces  a  noise  by  striking  the  leaf  with 
its  head  in  a  series  of  spasmodic  taps,  and  an- 
other ant  is  also  very  interesting  as  regards 
its  sound-producing  habit.  "Individuals  of  this 
species  are  sometimes  spread  over  a  surface  of 
two  square  yards,  many  out  of  sight  of  the  others ; 
yet  the  tapping  is  set  up  at  the  same  moment,  con- 
tinued exactly  the  same  space  of  time,  and 
stopped  at  the  same  instant.  After  the  lapse  of  a 
few  seconds,  all  recommence  simultaneously.  The 
interval  is  always  approximately  of  the  same 
duration,  and  each  ant  does  not  beat  synchro- 
nously with  every  other  ant,  but  only  like  those  in 
the  same  group,  so  the  independent  tappings  play 
a  sort  of  tune,  each  group  alike  in  time,  but  the 
tapping  of  the  whole  mass  beginning  and  ending 
at  the  same  instant.  This  is  doubtless  a  means  of 
communication. " 

The  organ  of  hearing  in  insects  is  still  to  be  dis- 
covered in  many  forms,  but  in  katydids  it  is 
situated  on  the  middle  of  the  fore-legs ;  in  butter- 
flies on  the  sides  of  the  thorax,  while  the  tip  of 
the  horns  or  antennae  of  many  insects  is  con- 


INSECT  MUSIC  189 

sidered  to  be  the  seat  of  this  function.  In  all  it 
is  little  more  than  a  cavity,  over  which  a  skin  is 
stretched  like  a  drum-head,  which  thus  reacts  to 
the  vibration.  This  seems  to  be  very  often 
"  tuned, "  as  it  were,  to  the  sounds  made  by  the 
particular  species  in  which  it  is  found.  A  cricket 
will  at  times  be  unaffected  by  any  sound,  however 
loud,  while  at  the  slightest  "screek"  or  chirp 
of  its  own  species,  no  matter  how  faint,  it  will 
start  its  own  little  tune  in  all  excitement. 

The  songs  of  the  cicadas  are  noted  all  over  the 
world.  Darwin  heard  them  while  anchored  half  a 
mile  off  the  South  American  coast,  and  a  giant 
species  of  that  country  is  said  to  produce  a  noise 
as  loud  as  the  whistle  of  a  locomotive.  Only  the 
males  sing,  the  females  being  dumb,  thus  giving 
rise  to  the  well-known  Grecian  couplet: 

"Happy  the  cicadas*  lives, 
For  they  all  have  voiceless  wives." 

Anyone  who  has  entered  a  wood  where  thou- 
sands of  the  seventeen-year  cicadas  were  hatch- 
ing has  never  forgotten  it.  A  threshing  machine, 
or  a  gigantic  frog  chorus,  is  a  fair  comparison, 
and  when  a  branch  loaded  with  these  insects  is 
shaken,  the  sound  rises  to  a  shrill  screech  or 
scream.  This  noise  is  supposed — in  fact  is  de- 
finitely known — to  attract  the  female  insect,  and 
although  there  may  be  in  it  some  tender  notes 
which  we  fail  to  distinguish,  yet  let  us  hope  that 


190  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

the  absence  of  any  highly  organised  auditory 
organ  may  result  in  reducing  the  effect  of  a  steam- 
engine  whistle  to  an  agreeable  whisper!  It  is 
thought  that  the  vibrations  are  felt  rather  than 
heard,  in  the  sense  that  we  use  the  word  ''hear"; 
if  one  has  ever  had  a  cicada  zizz  in  one's  hand, 
the  electrical  shocks  which  seem  to  go  up  the  arm 
help  the  belief  in  this  idea.  To  many  of  us  the 
song  of  the  cicada — softened  by  distance — will 
ever  be  pleasant  on  account  of  its  associations. 
When  one  attempts  to  picture  a  hot  August  day 
in  a  hay-field  or  along  a  dusty  road,  the  drowsy 
zee-ing  of  this  insect,  growing  louder  and  more 
accelerated  and  then  as  gradually  dying  away, 
is  a  focus  for  the  mind's  eye,  around  which  the 
other  details  instantly  group  themselves. 

The  apparatus  for  producing  this  sound  is  one 
of  the  most  complex  in  all  the  animal  kingdom. 
In  brief,  it  consists  of  two  external  doors,  capable 
of  being  partly  opened,  and  three  internal  mem- 
branes, to  one  of  which  is  attached  a  vibrating 
muscle,  which,  put  in  motion,  sets  all  the  others 
vibrating  in  unison. 

We  attach  a  great  deal  of  importance  to  the 
fact  of  being  educated  to  the  appreciation  of  the 
highest  class  of  music.  We  applaud  our  Paderew- 
ski,  and  year  after  year  are  awed  and  delighted 
with  wonderful  operatic  music,  yet  seldom  is  the 
limitation  of  human  perception  of  musical  sounds 
considered. 


INSECT  MUSIC  191 

If  we  wish  to  appreciate  the  limits  within  which 
the  human  ear  is  capable  of  distinguishing  sounds, 
we  should  sit  down  in  a  meadow,  some  hot  mid- 
summer day,  and  listen  to  the  subdued  running 
murmur  of  the  myriads  of  insects.  Many  are 
very  distinct  to  our  ears  and  we  have  little  trouble 
in  tracing  them  to  their  source.  Such  are  crickets 
and  grasshoppers,  which  fiddle  and  rasp  their 
roughened  hind  legs  against  their  wings.  Some 
butterflies  have  the  power  of  making  a  sharp 
crackling  sound  by  means  of  hooks  on  the  wings. 
The  katydid,  so  annoying  to  some  in  its  persistent 
ditty,  so  full  of  reminiscences  to  others  of  us,  is 
a  large,  green,  fiddling  grasshopper. 

Another  sound  which  is  typical  of  summer  is 
the  hum  of  insects'  wings,  sometimes,  as  near  a 
beehive,  rising  to  a  subdued  roar.  The  higher, 
thinner  song  of  the  mosquito's  wings  is  unfortu- 
nately familiar  to  us,  and  we  must  remember  that 
the  varying  tone  of  the  hum  of  each  species  may 
be  of  the  greatest  importance  to  it  as  a  means  of 
recognition.  Many  beetles  have  a  projecting  horn 
on  the  under  side  of  the  body  which  they  can 
snap  against  another  projection,  and  by  this 
means  call  their  lady-loves,  literally  "playing  the 
bones ' '  in  their  minstrel  serenade. 

Although  we  can  readily  distinguish  the  sounds 
which  these  insects  produce,  yet  there  are  hun- 
dreds of  small  creatures,  and  even  large  ones, 
which  are  provided  with  organs  of  hearing,  but 


192  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

whose  language  is  too  fine  for  our  coarse  percep- 
tions. The  vibrations — chirps,  hums,  and  clicks — 
can  be  recorded  on  delicate  instruments,  but,  just 
as  there  are  shades  and  colours  at  both  ends  of 
the  spectrum  which  our  eyes  cannot  perceive,  so 
there  are  tones  running  we  know  not  how  far  be- 
yond the  scale  limits  which  affect  our  ears.  Some 
creatures  utter  noises  so  shrill,  so  sharp,  that  it 
pains  our  ears  to  listen  to  them,  and  these  are 
probably  on  the  borderland  of  our  sound-world. 

Pipe,  little  minstrels  of  the  waning  year, 

In  gentle  concert  pipe! 
Pipe  the  warm  noons;  the  mellow  harvest  near; 

The  apples  dropping  ripe; 

The  sweet  sad  hush  on  Nature's  gladness  laid; 

The  sounds  through  silence  heard! 
Pipe  tenderly  the  passing  of  the  year. 

HARRIET  McEwEN  KIMBALL. 

I  love  to  hear  thine  earnest  voice, 

Wherever  thou  art  hid, 
Thou  testy  little  dogmatist, 

Thou  pretty  Katydid! 
Thou  mindest  me  of  gentlefolks,-- 

Old  gentlefolks  are  they,— 
Thou  say*st  an  undisputed  thing 

In  such  a  solemn  way. 

OLIVER  WENDBLL  HOLMES. 


AUGUST 


THE  GRAY  DAYS  OP  BIRDS 

THE  temptation  is  great,  if  we  love  flowers,  to 
pass  over  the  seed  time,  when  stalks  are 
dried  and  leaves  are  shrivelled,  no  matter  how 
beautiful  may  be  the  adaptation  for  scattering  or 
preserving  the  seed  or  how  wonderful  the  protec- 
tive coats  guarding  against  cold  or  wet.  Or  if 
insects  attract  us  by  their  many  varied  interests, 
we  are  more  enthusiastic  over  the  glories  of  the 
full-winged  imago  than  the  less  conspicuous, 
though  no  less  interesting,  eggs  and  chrysalides 
hidden  away  in  crevices  throughout  the  long 
winter. 

Thus  there  seems  always  a  time  when  we 
hesitate  to  talk  or  write  of  our  favourite  theme, 
especially  if  this  be  some  class  of  life  on  the  earth, 
because,  perchance,  it  is  not  at  its  best. 

Even  birds  have  their  gray  days,  when  in  the 
autumn  the  glory  of  their  plumage  and  song  has 
diminished.  At  this  time  few  of  their  human 
admirers  intrude  upon  them  and  the  birds  them- 
selves are  only  too  glad  to  escape  observation. 
Collectors  of  skins  disdain  to  ply  their  trade,  as 
the  ragged,  pin-feathery  coats  of  the  birds  now 
make  sorry-looking  specimens.  But  we  can  find 
something  of  interest  in  birddom,  even  in  this 
interim. 

195 


196  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

Nesting  is  over,  say  you,  when  you  start  out  on 
your  tramps  in  late  summer  or  early  autumn ;  but 
do  not  be  too  sure.  The  gray  purse  of  the  oriole 
has  begun  to  ravel  at  the  edges  and  the  haircloth 
cup  of  the  chipping  sparrow  is  already  wind- 
distorted,  but  we  shall  find  some  housekeeping 
just  begun. 

The  goldfinch  is  one  of  these  late  nesters.  Long 
after  his  northern  cousins,  the  pine  siskins  and 
snowflakes,  have  laid  their  eggs  and  reared  their 
young,  the  goldfinch  begins  to  focus  the  aerial 
loops  of  his  flight  about  some  selected  spot  and 
to  collect  beakfuls  of  thistledown.  And  here,  per- 
haps, we  have  his  fastidious  reason  for  delaying. 
Thistles  seed  with  the  goldenrod,  and  not  until 
this  fleecy  substance  is  gray  and  floating  does  he 
consider  that  a  suitable  nesting  material  is  avail- 
able. 

"When  the  young  birds  are  fully  fledged  one 
would  think  the  goldfinch  a  polygamist,  as  we  see 
him  in  shining  yellow  and  black,  leading  his 
family  quintet,  all  sombre  hued,  his  patient  wife 
being  to  our  eyes  indistinguishable  from  the 
youngsters. 

But  in  the  case  of  most  of  the  birds  the  cares 
of  nesting  are  past,  and  the  woods  abound  with 
full-sized  but  awkward  young  birds,  blundering 
through  their  first  month  of  insect-hunting  and  fly- 
catching,  tumbling  into  the  pools  from  which  they 
try  to  drink,  and  shrieking  with  the  very  joy  of 


THE  GRAY  DAYS  OF  BIRDS  197 

life,  when  it  would  be  far  safer  for  that  very  life 
if  they  remained  quiet. 

It  is  a  delightful  period  this,  a  transition  as 
interesting  as  evanescent.  This  is  the  time  when 
instinct  begins  to  be  aided  by  intelligence,  when 
every  hour  accumulates  fact  upon  fact,  all  helping 
to  co-ordinate  action  and  desire  on  the  part  of  the 
young  birds. 

No  hint  of  migration  has  yet  passed  over  the 
land,  and  the  quiet  of  summer  still  reigns;  but 
even  as  we  say  this  a  confused  chuckling  is  heard ; 
this  rises  into  a  clatter  of  harsh  voices,  and  a 
small  flock  of  blackbirds — two  or  three  families — 
pass  overhead.  The  die  is  cast !  No  matter  how 
hot  may  be  the  sunshine  during  succeeding  days, 
or  how  contented  and  thoughtless  of  the  future  the 
birds  may  appear,  there  is  a  something  which  has 
gone,  and  which  can  never  return  until  another 
cycle  of  seasons  has  passed. 

During  this  transition  time  some  of  our  friends 
are  hardly  recognisable;  we  may  surprise  the 
scarlet  tanager  in  a  plumage  which  seems  more 
befitting  a  nonpareil  bunting, — a  regular  "  Jos- 
eph's coat."  The  red  of  his  head  is  half  replaced 
with  a  ring  of  green,  and  perhaps  a  splash  of 
the  latter  decorates  the  middle  of  his  back.  When 
he  flies  the  light  shows  through  his  wings  in  two 
long  narrow  slits,  where  a  pair  of  primaries  are 
lacking.  It  is  a  wise  provision  of  Nature  which 
regulates  the  moulting  sequence  of  his  flight 


198  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

feathers,  so  that  only  a  pair  shall  fall  out  at  one 
time,  and  the  adjoining  pair  not  before  the  new 
feathers  are  large  and  strong.  A  sparrow  or 
oriole  hopping  along  the  ground  with  angular, 
half -naked  wings  would  be  indeed  a  pitiful  sight, 
except  to  marauding  weasels  and  cats,  who  would 
find  meals  in  abundance  on  every  hand. 

Let  us  take  our  way  to  some  pond  or  lake,  thick 
with  duckweed  and  beloved  of  wild  fowl,  and  we 
shall  find  a  different  state  of  affairs.  We  surprise 
a  group  of  mallard  ducks,  which  rush  out  from  the 
overhanging  bank  and  dive  for  safety  among  the 
sheltering  green  arrowheads.  But  their  out- 
spread wings  are  a  mockery,  the  flight  feathers 
showing  as  a  mere  fringe  of  quill  sticks,  which 
beat  the  water  helplessly. 

Another  thing  we  notice.  "Where  are  the  re- 
splendent drakes  1  Have  they  flown  elsewhere 
and  left  their  mates  to  endure  the  dangers  of 
moulting  alone?  Let  us  come  here  a  week  later 
and  see  what  a  transformation  is  taking  place. 
"When  most  birds  moult  it  is  for  a  period  of 
several  months,  but  these  ducks  have  a  partial 
fall  moult  which  is  of  the  greatest  importance  to 
them.  When  the  wing  feathers  begin  to  loosen 
in  their  sockets  an  unfailing  instinct  leads  these 
birds  to  seek  out  some  secluded  pond,  where  they 
patiently  await  the  moult.  The  sprouting,  blood- 
filled  quills  force  out  the  old  feathers,  and  the 


THE  GRAY  DAYS  OF  BIRDS  199 

bird  becomes  a  thing  of  the  water,  to  swim  and  to 
dive,  with  no  more  power  of  flight  than  its  pond 
companions,  the  turtles. 

If,  however,  the  drake  should  retain  his  irides- 
cent head  and  snowy  collar,  some  sharp-eyed 
danger  would  spy  out  his  helplessness  and  death 
would  swoop  upon  him.  So  for  a  time  his  bright 
feathers  fall  out  and  a  quick  makeshift  disguise 
closes  over  him — the  reed-hued  browns  and  grays 
of  his  mate — and  for  a  time  the  pair  are  hardly 
distinguishable.  With  the  return  of  his  power  of 
flight  comes  renewed  brightness,  and  the  wild 
drake  emerges  from  his  seclusion  on  strong- 
feathered,  whistling  wings.  All  this  we  should 
miss,  did  we  not  seek  him  out  at  this  season; 
otherwise  the  few  weeks  would  pass  and  we  should 
notice  no  change  from  summer  to  winter  plumage, 
and  attribute  his  temporary  absence  to  a  whim 
of  wandering  on  distant  feeding  grounds. 

Another  glance  at  our  goldfinch  shows  a  curious 
sight.  Mottled  with  spots  and  streaks,  yellow 
alternating  with  greenish,  he  is  an  anomaly  in- 
deed, and  in  fact  all  of  our  birds  which  undergo 
a  radical  colour  change  will  show  remarkable  com- 
binations during  the  actual  process. 

It  is  during  the  gray  days  that  the  secret  to  a 
great  problem  may  be  looked  for — the  why  of 
migration. 

A  young  duck  of  the  year,  whose  wings  are  at 


200  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

last  strong  and  fit,  waves  them  in  ecstasy,  vibrat- 
ing from  side  to  side  and  end  to  end  of  his  natal 
pond.  Then  one  day  we  follow  his  upward  glances 
to  where  a  thin,  black  arrow  is  throbbing  south- 
ward, so  high  in  the  blue  sky  that  the  individual 
ducks  are  merged  into  a  single  long  thread.  The 
young  bird,  calling  again  and  again,  spurns  the 
water  with  feet  and  wings,  finally  rising  in  a 
slowly  ascending  arc.  Somewhere,  miles  to  the 
southward,  another  segment  approaches — touches 
— merges. 

But  what  of  our  smaller  birds  ?  When  the  gray 
days  begin  to  chill  we  may  watch  them  hopping 
among  the  branches  all  day  in  their  search  for 
insects — a  keener  search  now  that  so  many  of  the 
more  delicate  flies  and  bugs  have  fallen  chilled  to 
the  earth.  Toward  night  the  birds  become  more 
restless,  feed  less,  wander  aimlessly  about,  but, 
as  we  can  tell  by  their  chirps,  remain  near  us  until 
night  has  settled  down.  Then  the  irresistible 
maelstrom  of  migration  instinct  draws  them  up- 
ward,— upward, — climbing  on  fluttering  wings,  a 
mile  or  even  higher  into  the  thin  air,  and  in  com- 
pany with  thousands  and  tens  of  thousands  they 
drift  southward,  sending  vague  notes  down,  but 
themselves  invisible  to  us,  save  when  now  and 
then  a  tiny  black  mote  floats  across  the  face  of 
the  moon — an  army  of  feathered  mites,  passing 
from  tundra  and  spruce  to  bayou  and  palm. 

In  the  morning,  instead  of  the  half-hearted 


THE  GRAY  DAYS  OF  BIRDS  201 

warble  of  an  insect  eater,  there  sounds  in  our  ears, 
like  the  ring  of  skates  on  ice,  the  metallic,  whip- 
like  chirp  of  a  snowbird,  confident  of  his  winter's 
seed  feast 


LIVES  OF  THE  LANTERN  BEARERS 

TO  all  wild  creatures  fire  is  an  unknown  and 
hated  thing,  although  it  is  often  so  fascinat- 
ing to  them  that  they  will  stand  transfixed  gazing 
at  its  mysterious  light,  while  a  hunter,  unnoticed, 
creeps  up  behind  and  shoots  them. 

In  the  depth  of  the  sea,  where  the  sun  is  power- 
less to  send  a  single  ray  of  light  and  warmth, 
there  live  many  strange  beings,  fish  and  worms, 
which,  by  means  of  phosphorescent  spots  and 
patches,  may  light  their  own  way.  Of  these 
strange  sea  folk  we  know  nothing  except  from 
the  fragments  which  are  brought  to  the  surfac« 
by  the  dredge;  but  over  our  fields  and  hedges, 
throughout  the  summer  nights,  we  may  see  and 
study  most  interesting  examples  of  creatures 
which  produce  their  own  light.  Heedless  of 
whether  the  moon  shines  brightly,  or  whether  an 
overcast  sky  cloaks  the  blackest  of  nights,  the 
fireflies  blaze  their  sinuous  path  through  life. 
These  little  yellow  and  black  beetles,  which  illu- 
mine our  way  like  a  cloud  of  tiny  meteors,  have 
indeed  a  wonderful  power,  for  the  light  which 
they  produce  within  their  own  bodies  is  a  cold 
glow,  totally  different  from  any  fire  of  human 
agency. 

In  some  species  there  seems  to  be  a  most  roman- 
202 


LIVES  OF  THE  LANTERN  BEARERS       203 

tic  reason  for  their  brilliance.  Down  among  the 
grass  blades  are  lowly,  wingless  creatures — the 
female  fireflies,  which,  as  twilight  falls,  leave  their 
earthen  burrows  in  the  turf  and,  crawling  slowly 
to  the  summit  of  some  plant,  they  display  the  tiny 
lanterns  which  Nature  has  kindled  within  their 
bodies. 

Far  overhead  shoot  the  strong-winged  males, 
searching  for  their  minute  insect  food,  weaving 
glowing  lines  over  all  the  shadowy  landscape, 
and  apparently  heedless  of  all  beneath  them.  Yet 
when  the  dim  little  beacon,  hung  out  with  the 
hopefulness  of  instinct  upon  the  grass  blade,  is 
seen,  all  else  is  forgotten  and  the  beetle  descends 
to  pay  court  to  the  poor,  worm-like  creature,  so 
unlike  him  in  appearance,  but  whose  little  illumi- 
nation is  her  badge  of  nobility.  The  gallant  suitor 
is  as  devoted  as  if  the  object  of  his  affection  were 
clad  in  all  the  gay  colours  of  a  butterfly;  and  he 
is  fortunate  if,  when  he  has  reached  the  signal 
among  the  grasses,  he  does  not  find  a  half-dozen 
firefly  rivals  before  him. 

"When  insects  seek  their  mates  by  day,  their 
characteristic  colours  or  forms  may  be  confused 
with  surrounding  objects;  or  those  which  by  night 
are  able  in  that  marvellous  way  to  follow  the 
faintest  scent  up  wind  may  have  difficulties  when 
cross  currents  of  air  are  encountered;  but  the 
female  firefly,  waiting  patiently  upon  her  lowly 
leaf,  has  unequalled  opportunity  for  winning  her 


204  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

mate,  for  there  is  nothing  to  compare  with  or 
eclipse  her  flame.  Except — I  wonder  if  ever  a 
firefly  has  hastened  downward  toward  the  strange 
glow  which  we  sometimes  see  in  the  heart  of  de- 
cayed wood, — mistaking  a  patch  of  fox-fire  for 
the  love-light  of  which  he  was  in  search ! 

In  other  species,  including  the  common  one 
about  our  homes,  the  lady  lightning-bug  is  more 
fortunate  in  possessing  wings  and  is  able  to  fly 
abroad  like  her  mate. 

Although  this  phosphorescence  has  been  mic- 
roscopically examined,  it  is  but  slightly  under- 
stood. We  know,  however,  that  it  is  a  wonderful 
process  of  combustion, — by  which  a  bright  light  is 
produced  without  heat,  smoke,  or  indeed  fuel, 
except  that  provided  by  the  life  processes  in  the 
tiny  body  of  the  insect. 

So  shines  a  good  deed  in  a  naughty  world. 

SHAKESPEARE. 


A  STARFISH  AND  A  DAISY 

DAY  after  day  the  forms  of  horses,  dogs, 
birds,  and  other  creatures  pass  before  our 
eyes.  We  look  at  them  and  call  them  by  the 
names  which  we  have  given  them,  and  yet — we 
see  them  not.  That  is  to  say,  we  say  that  they 
have  a  head,  a  tail;  they  run  or  fly;  they  are  of 
one  colour  beneath,  another  above,  but  beyond 
these  bare  meaningless  facts  most  of  us  never  go. 
Let  us  think  of  the  meaning  of  form.  Take, 
for  example,  a  flower — a  daisy.  Now,  if  we  could 
imagine  such  an  impossible  thing  as  that  a  daisy 
blossom  should  leave  its  place  of  growth,  creep 
down  the  stem  and  go  wandering  off  through  the 
grass,  soon  something  would  probably  happen  to 
its  shape.  It  would  perhaps  get  in  the  habit  of 
creeping  with  some  one  ray  always  in  front,  and 
the  friction  of  the  grass  stems  on  either  side 
would  soon  wear  and  fray  the  ends  of  the  side 
rays,  while  those  behind  might  grow  longer  and 
longer.  If  we  further  suppose  that  this  strange 
daisy  flower  did  not  like  the  water,  the  rays  in 
front  might  be  of  service  in  warning  it  to  turn 
aside.  When  their  tips  touched  the  surface  and 
were  wet  by  the  water  of  some  pool,  the  ambula- 
tory blossom  would  draw  back  and  start  out  in  a 
new  direction.  Thus  a  theoretical  head  (with  the 

205 


206  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

beginnings  of  the  organs  of  sense),  and  a  long- 
drawn-out  tail,  would  have  their  origin. 

Such  a  remarkable  simile  is  not  as  fanciful  as 
it  might  at  first  appear;  for  although  we  know 
of  no  blossom  which  so  sets  at  naught  the  seden- 
tary life  of  the  vegetable  kingdom,  yet  among  cer- 
tain of  the  animals  which  live  their  lives  beneath 
the  waves  of  the  sea  a  very  similar  thing  occurs. 

Many  miles  inland,  even  on  high  mountains,  we 
may  sometimes  see  thousands  of  little  joints,  or 
bead-like  forms,  imbedded  in  great  rocky  cliffs. 
They  have  been  given  the  name  of  St.  Cuthbert's 
beads.  Occasionally  in  the  vicinity  of  these  fos- 
sils— for  such  they  are — are  found  impressions 
of  a  graceful,  flower-like  head,  with  many  deli- 
cately divided  petals,  fixed  forever  in  the  hard  re- 
lief of  stone.  The  name  of  stone  lilies  has  been 
applied  to  them.  The  beads  were  once  strung  to- 
gether in  the  form  of  a  long  stem,  and  at  the  top 
the  strangely  beautiful  animal-lily  nodded  its 
head  in  the  currents  of  some  deep  sea,  which  in 
the  long  ago  of  the  earth's  age  covered  the  land — 
millions  of  years  before  the  first  man  or  beast 
or  bird  drew  breath. 

It  was  for  a  long  time  supposed  that  these  won- 
derful creatures  were  extinct,  but  dredges  have 
brought  up  from  the  dark  depths  of  the  sea  actual 
living  stone  lilies,  or  crinoids,  this  being  their  real 
name.  Few  of  us  will  probably  ever  have  an  op- 
portunity of  studying  a  crinoid  alive,  although  in 


A  STARFISH  AND  A  DAISY  207 

our  museums  we  may  see  them  preserved  in  glass 
jars.  That,  however,  detracts  nothing  from  the 
marvel  of  their  history  and  relationship.  They 
send  root-like  organs  deep  into  the  mud,  where 
they  coil  about  some  shell  and  there  cling  fast. 
Then  the  stem  grows  tall  and  slender,  and  upon 
the  summit  blooms  or  is  developed  the  animal- 
flower.  Its  nourishment  is  not  drawn  from  the 
roots  and  the  air,  as  is  that  of  the  daisy,  but  is 
provided  by  the  tiny  creatures  which  swim  to  its 
tentacles,  or  are  borne  thither  by  the  ocean  cur- 
rents. Some  of  these  crinoids,  as  if  impatient  of 
their  plant-like  life  and  asserting  their  animal 
kinship,  at  last  tear  themselves  free  from  their 
stem  and  float  off,  turn  over,  and  thereafter  live 
happily  upon  the  bottom  of  the  sea,  roaming 
where  they  will,  creeping  slowly  along  and  ful- 
filling the  destiny  of  our  imaginary  daisy. 

And  here  a  comparison  comes  suddenly  to  mind. 
How  like  to  a  many-rayed  starfish  is  our  creeping 
crinoid !  Few  of  us,  unless  we  had  studies  about 
these  creatures,  could  distinguish  between  a  cri- 
noid and  one  of  the  frisky  little  dancing  stars,  or 
serpent  stars,  which  are  so  common  in  the  rocky 
caves  along  our  coast.  This  relationship  is  no  less 
real  than  apparent.  The  hard-skinned  "five 
finger, "  or  common  starfish,  which  we  may  pick 
up  on  any  beach,  while  it  never  grew  upon  a  stem, 
yet  still  preserves  the  radial  symmetry  of  its 
stalked  ancestors.  Pick  up  your  starfish,  carry 


208  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

it  to  the  nearest  field,  and  pluck  a  daisy  close  to 
the  head.  How  interesting  the  comparison  be- 
comes, now  that  the  knowledge  of  its  meaning  is 
plain.  Anything  which  grows  fast  upon  a  single 
immovable  stem  tends  to  grow  equally  in  all  direc- 
tions. We  need  not  stop  here,  for  we  may  include 
sea  anemones  and  corals,  those  most  marvellously 
coloured  flowers  of  the  sea,  which  grow  upon  a 
short,  thick  stalk  and  send  out  their  tentacles 
equally  in  all  directions.  And  many  of  the  jelly- 
fish which  throb  along  close  beneath  the  surface 
swells  were  in  their  youth  each  a  section  of  a  pile 
of  saucer-like  individuals,  which  were  fastened 
by  a  single  stalk  to  some  shell  or  piece  of  coraL 
We  will  remember  that  it  was  suggested  that 
the  theoretical  daisy  would  soon  alter  its  shape 
after  it  entered  upon  active  life.  This  is  plainly 
seen  in  the  starfish,  although  at  first  glance  the 
creature  seems  as  radially  symmetrical  as  a 
wheel.  But  at  one  side  of  the  body,  between  two 
of  the  arms,  is  a  tiny  perforated  plate,  serving 
to  strain  the  water  which  enters  the  body,  and 
thus  the  circular  tendency  is  broken,  and  a  begin- 
ning made  toward  right  and  left  handedness.  In 
certain  sea-urchins,  which  are  really  starfishes 
with  the  gaps  between  the  arms  filled  up,  the  body 
is  elongated,  and  thus  the  head  and  tail  conditions 
of  all  animals  higher  in  the  sea  >  of  life  are  rep- 
resented. 


THE  DREAM  OF  THE  YELLOW-THROAT 

MANY  of  us  look  with  longing  to  the  days 
of  Columbus;  we  chafe  at  the  thought  of 
no  more  continents  to  discover;  no  unknown  seas 
to  encompass.  But  at  our  very  doors  is  an  " un- 
discovered bourne/'  from  which,  while  the  travel- 
ler invariably  returns,  yet  he  will  have  penetrated 
but  slightly  into  its  mysteries.  This  unexplored 
region  is  night. 

When  the  dusk  settles  down  and  the  creatures 
of  sunlight  seek  their  rest,  a  new  realm  of  life 
awakens  into  being.  The  flaring  colours  and  loud 
bustle  of  the  day  fade  and  are  lost,  and  in  their 
place  come  soft,  gray  tones  and  silence.  The 
scarlet  tanager  seeks  some  hidden  perch  and  soon 
from  the  same  tree  slips  a  silent,  ghostly  owl ;  the 
ruby  of  the  hummingbird  dies  out  as  the  gaudy 
flowers  of  day  close  their  petals,  and  the  gray 
wraiths  of  sphinx  moths  appear  and  sip  nectar 
from  the  spectral  moonflowers. 


With  feet  shod  with  silence,  let  us  creep  near  a 
dense  tangle  of  sweetbrier  and  woodbine  late  some 
summer  evening  and  listen  to  the  sounds  of  the 
night-folk.  How  few  there  are  that  our  ears  can 

209 


210  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

analyse !  We  huddle  close  to  the  ground  and  shut 
our  eyes.  Then  little  by  little  we  open  them  and 
set  our  senses  of  sight  and  hearing  at  keenest 
pitch.  Even  so,  how  handicapped  are  we  com- 
pared to  the  wild  creatures.  A  tiny  voice  becomes 
audible,  then  dies  away, — entering  for  a  moment 
the  narrow  range  of  our  coarse  hearing, — and 
finishing  its  message  of  invitation  or  challenge  in 
vibrations  too  fine  for  our  ears. 


Were  we  crouched  by  a  dense  yew  hedge,  bor- 
dering an  English  country  lane,  a  nightingale 
might  delight  us, — a  melody  of  day,  softened, 
adapted,  to  the  night.  If  the  air  about  us  was 
heavy  with  the  scent  of  orange  blossoms  of  some 
covert  in  our  own  southland,  the  glorious  harmony 
of  a  mocking-bird  might  surge  through  the  gloom, 
— assuaging  the  ear  as  do  the  blossoms  another 
sense. 

But  sitting  still  in  our  own  home  tangle  let  us 
listen, — listen.  Our  eyes  have  slipped  the  scales 
of  our  listless  civilised  life  and  pierce  the  dark- 
ness with  the  acuteness  of  our  primeval  fore- 
fathers ;  our  ears  tingle  and  strain. 

A  slender  tongue  of  sound  arises  from  the  bush 
before  us.  Again  and  again  it  comes,  muffled  but 
increasing  in  volume.  A  tiny  ball  of  feathers  is 
perched  in  the  centre  of  the  tangle,  with  beak 


THE  DREAM  OF  THE  YELLOW-THROAT     211 

hidden  in  the  deep,  soft  plumage,  but  ever  and 
anon  the  little  body  throbs  and  the  song  falls 
gently  on  the  silence  of  the  night :  "I  beseech  you! 
I  beseech  you!  I  beseech  you!"  A  Maryland 
yellow-throat  is  asleep  and  singing  in  its  dreams. 
As  we  look  and  listen,  a  shadowless  something 
hovers  overhead,  and,  looking  upward,  we  see  a 
gray  screech  owl  silently  hanging  on  beating 
wings.  His  sharp  ears  have  caught  the  muffled 
sound;  his  eyes  search  out  the  tangle,  but  the 
yellow-throat  is  out  of  reach.  The  little  hunter 
drifts  away  into  the  blackness,  the  song  ends  and 
the  sharp  squeak  of  a  mouse  startles  us.  We  rise 
slowly  from  our  cramped  position  and  quietly 
leave  the  mysteries  of  the  night. 


SEPTEMBER 


THE  PASSING  OF  THE  FLOCKS 

IT  is  September.  August — the  month  of  gray 
days  for  birds — has  passed.  The  last  pin- 
feather  of  the  new  winter  plumage  has  burst  its 
sheath,  and  is  sleek  and  glistening  from  its  thor- 
ough oiling  with  waterproof  dressing,  which  the 
birds  squeeze  out  with  their  bills  from  a  special 
gland,  and  which  they  rub  into  every  part  of  their 
plumage.  The  youngsters,  now  grown  as  large  as 
their  parents,  have  become  proficient  in  fly-catch- 
ing or  berry-picking,  as  the  case  may  be.  Hence- 
forth they  forage  for  themselves,  although  if  we 
watch  carefully  we  may  still  see  a  parent 's  love 
prompting  it  to  give  a  berry  to  its  big  offspring 
(indistinguishable  save  for  this  attention),  who 
greedily  devours  it  without  so  much  as  a  wing 
flutter  of  thanks. 

Two  courses  are  open  to  the  young  birds  who 
have  been  so  fortunate  as  to  escape  the  dangers 
of  nestlinghood.  They  may  unite  in  neighbourly 
flocks  with  others  of  their  kind,  as  do  the  black- 
birds of  the  marshes ;  or  they  may  wander  off  by 
themselves,  never  going  very  far  from  their  sum- 
mer home,  but  perching  alone  each  night  in  the 
thick  foliage  of  some  sheltering  bush. 

How  wonderfully  the  little  fellow  adapts  him- 
self to  the  radical  and  sudden  change  in  his  life ! 

215 


216  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

Before  this,  his  world  has  been  a  warm,  soft- 
lined  nest,  with  ever  anxious  parents  to  shelter 
him  from  rain  and  cold,  or  to  stand  with  half- 
spread  wings  between  him  and  the  burning  rays 
of  the  sun.  He  has  only  to  open  his  mouth  and 
call  for  food  and  a  supply  of  the  choicest  morsels 
appears  and  is  shoved  far  down  his  throat,  If 
danger  threatens,  both  parents  are  ready  to  fight 
to  the  last,  or  even  willing  to  give  their  lives  to 
protect  himT  Little  wonder  is  it  that  the  young 
birds  are  loth  to  leave ;  we  can  sympathise  heart- 
ily with  the  last  weaker  brother,  whose  feet  cling 
convulsively  to  the  nest,  who  begs  piteously  for 
"just  one  more  caterpillar!"  But  the  mother 
bird  is  inexorable  and  stands  a  little  way  out  of 
reach  with  the  juiciest  morsel  she  can  find.  Once 
out,  the  young  bird  never  returns.  Even  if  we 
catch  the  little  chap  before  he  finishes  his  first 
flight  and  replace  him,  the  magic  spell  of  home  is 
broken,  and  he  is  out  again  the  instant  our  hand 
frees  him. 

What  a  change  the  first  night  brings !  Yet  with 
unfailing  instinct  he  squats  on  some  twig,  fluffs  up 
his  feathers,  tucks  his  wee  head  behind  his  wing, 
and  sleeps  the  sleep  of  his  first  adult  birdhood 
as  soundly  as  if  this  position  of  rest  had  been 
familiar  to  him  since  he  broke  through  the  shell. 

"We  admire  his  aptitude  for  learning;  how 
quickly  his  wings  gain  strength  and  skill;  how 
soon  he  manages  to  catch  his  own  dinner.  But 


THE  PASSING  OF  THE  FLOCKS  217 

how  all  this  pales  before  the  accomplishment  of  a 
young  brush  turkey  or  moundbuilder  of  the  antip- 
odes. Hatched  six  or  eight  feet  under  ground, 
merely  by  the  heat  of  decaying  vegetation,  no 
fond  parents  minister  to  his  wants.  Not  only 
must  he  escape  from  the  shell  in  the  pressure 
and  darkness  of  his  underground  prison  (how  we 
cannot  tell),  but  he  is  then  compelled  to  dig 
through  six  feet  of  leaves  and  mould  before  he 
reaches  the  sunlight.  He  finds  himself  well  feath- 
ered, and  at  once  spreads  his  small  but  perfect 
wings  and  goes  humming  off  to  seek  his  living 
alone  and  unattended. 

It  is  September — the  month  of  restlessness  for 
the  birds.  Weeks  ago  the  first  migrants  started 
on  their  southward  journey,  the  more  delicate 
insect-eaters  going  first,  before  the  goldfinches 
and  other  late  nesters  had  half  finished  house- 
keeping. The  northern  warblers  drift  past  us 
southward — the  magnolia,  blackburnian,  Cana- 
dian fly-catching,  and  others,  bringing  memories 
of  spruce  and  balsam  to  those  of  us  who  have 
lived  with  them  in  the  forests  of  the  north. 

"It's  getting  too  cold  for  the  little  fellows," 
says  the  wiseacre,  who  sees  you  watching  the 
smaller  birds  as  they  pass  southward.  Is  it, 
thought  What  of  the  tiny  winter  wren  which 
spends  the  zero  weather  with  us?  His  coat  is 
no  warmer  than  those  birds  which  have  gone  to 
the  far  tropics.  And  what  of  the  flocks  of  birds 


218  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

which  we  occasionally  come  across  in  mid-winter, 
of  species  which  generally  migrate  to  Brazil?  It 
is  not  the  cold  which  deprives  us  of  our  summer 
friends,  or  at  least  the  great  majority  of  them; 
it  is  the  decrease  in  food  supply.  Insects  dis- 
appear, and  only  those  birds  which  feed  on  seeds 
and  buds,  or  are  able  to  glean  an  insect  diet  from 
the  crevices  of  fence  and  tree-trunk,  can  abide. 

This  is  the  month  to  climb  out  on  the  roof  of 
your  house,  lie  on  your  back  and  listen.  He  is  a 
stolid  person  indeed  who  is  not  moved  by  the 
chirps  and  twitters  which  come  down  through  the 
darkness.  There  is  no  better  way  to  show  what 
a  wonderful  power  sound  has  upon  our  memories. 
There  sounds  a  robin's  note,  and  spring  seems 
here  again;  through  the  night  comes  a  white- 
throat's  chirp,  and  we  see  again  the  fog-dimmed 
fields  of  a  Nova  Scotian  upland;  a  sandpiper 
"peets"  and  the  scene  in  our  mind's  eye  as  in- 
stantly changes,  and  so  on.  What  a  revelation 
if  we  could  see  as  in  daylight  for  a  few  moments ! 
The  sky  would  be  pitted  with  thousands  and 
thousands  of  birds  flying  from  a  few  hundred 
yards  to  as  high  as  one  or  two  miles  above  the 
earth. 

It  only  adds  to  the  interest  of  this  phenomenon 
when  we  turn  to  our  learned  books  on  birds  for 
an  explanation  of  the  origin  of  migration,  the 
whence  and  whither  of  the  long  journeys  by  day 
and  night,  and  find — no  certain  answer !  This  is 


THE  PASSING  OF  THE  FLOCKS  219 

one  of  the  greatest  of  the  many  mysteries  of  the 
natural  world,  of  which  little  is  known,  although 
much  is  guessed,  and  the  bright  September  nights 
may  reveal  to  us — we  know  not  what  undiscovered 
facts. 

I  see  my  way  as  birds  their  trackless  way. 
I  shall  arrive;  what  time,  what  circuit  first, 
I  ask  not;  but  unless  God  sends  his  hail 
Of  blinding  fire-balls,  sleet  or  driving  snow, 
In  sometime,  his  good  time,  I  shall  arrive; 
He  guides  me  and  the  bird.    In  his  good  time. 

ROBERT  BROWNING. 


GHOSTS  OF  THE  EARTH 

T  ^7E  may  know  the  name  of  every  tree  near 
V  V  our  home ;  we  may  recognise  each  blossom 
in  the  field,  every  weed  by  the  wayside;  yet  we 
should  be  astonished  to  be  told  that  there  are 
hundreds  of  plants — many  of  them  of  exquisite 
beauty — which  we  have  overlooked  in  very  sight 
of  our  doorstep.  What  of  the  green  film  which 
is  drawn  over  every  moist  tree-trunk  or  shaded 
wall,  or  of  the  emerald  film  which  coats  the  water 
of  the  pond 's  edge  f  Or  the  gray  lichens  painting 
the  rocks  and  logs,  toning  down  the  shingles ;  the 
toadstools  which,  like  pale  vegetable  ghosts, 
spring  up  in  a  night  from  the  turf ;  or  the  sombre 
puff  balls  which  seem  dead  from  their  birth? 

The  moulds  which  cover  bread  and  cheese  with 
a  delicate  tracery  of  filaments  and  raise  on  high 
their  tiny  balls  of  spores  are  as  worthy  to  be 
called  a  plant  growth  as  are  the  great  oaks  which 
shade  our  houses.  The  rusts  and  mildews  and 
blights  which  destroy  our  fruit  all  have  their 
beauty  of  growth  and  fruition  when  we  examine 
them  through  a  lens,  and  the  yeast  by  which  flour 
and  water  is  made  to  rise  into  the  porous,  spongy 
dough  is  just  as  truly  a  plant  as  is  the  geranium 
blossoming  at  the  kitchen  window. 
If  we  wonder  at  the  fierce  struggle  for  existence 

220 


GHOSTS  OF  THE  EARTH  221 

which  allows  only  a  few  out  of  the  many  seeds  of 
a  maple  or  thistle  to  germinate  and  grow  up,  how 
can  we  realise  the  obstacles  with  which  these  lowly 
plants  have  to  contend?  A  weed  in  the  garden 
may  produce  from  one  to  ten  thousand  seeds,  and 
one  of  our  rarest  ferns  scatters  in  a  single  season 
over  fifty  millions  spores;  while  from  the  larger 
puff-balls  come  clouds  of  unnumbered  millions  of 
spores,  blowing  to  the  ends  of  the  earth ;  yet  we 
may  search  for  days  without  finding  one  full- 
grown  individual. 

All  the  assemblage  of  mushrooms  and  toad- 
stools,— although  the  most  deadly  may  flaunt 
bright  hues  of  scarlet  and  yellow, — yet  lack  the 
healthy  green  of  ordinary  plants.  This  is  due  to 
the  fact  that  they  have  become  brown  parasites  or 
scavengers,  and  instead  of  transmuting  heat  and 
moisture  and  the  salts  of  the  earth  into  tissue  by 
means  of  the  pleasant-hued  chlorophyll,  these 
sylvan  ghosts  subsist  upon  the  sap  of  roots  or 
the  tissues  of  decaying  wood.  Emancipated  from 
the  normal  life  of  the  higher  plants,  even  flowers 
have  been  denied  them  and  their  fruit  is  but  a 
cloud  of  brown  dust, — each  mote  a  simple  cell. 

But  what  of  the  delicate  Indian  pipe  which 
gleams  out  from  the  darkest  aisles  of  the  forest? 
If  we  lift  up  its  hanging  head  we  will  find  a  per- 
fect flower,  and  its  secret  is  discovered.  Traitor 
to  its  kind,  it  has  dropped  from  the  ranks  of  the 
laurels,  the  heather,  and  the  jolly  little  winter- 


222  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

greens  to  the  colourless  life  of  a  parasite, — hob- 
nobbing with  clammy  toadstools  and  slimy  lichens. 
Its  common  names  are  all  appropriate, — ice-plant, 
ghost-flower,  corpse-plant. 

Nevertheless  it  is  a  delicately  beautiful  crea- 
tion, and  we  have  no  right  to  apply  our  human 
standards  of  ethics  to  these  children  of  the  wild, 
whose  only  chance  of  life  is  to  seize  every  opportu- 
nity,— to  make  use  of  each  hint  of  easier  existence. 

"We  have  excellent  descriptions  and  classifica- 
tions of  mushrooms  and  toadstools,  but  of  the 
actual  life  of  these  organisms,  of  the  conditions 
of  their  growth,  little  is  known.  Some  of  the 
most  hideous  are  delicious  to  our  palate,  some 
of  the  most  beautiful  are  certain  death.  The 
splendid  red  and  yellow  amanita,  which  lights 
up  a  dark  spot  in  the  woods  like  some  flowering 
orchid,  is  a  veritable  trap  of  death.  Though 
human  beings  have  learned  the  fatal  lesson  and 
leave  it  alone,  the  poor  flies  in  the  woods  are 
ever  deceived  by  its  brightness,  or  odour,  and  a 
circle  of  their  bodies  upon  the  ground  shows  the 
result  of  their  ignorance. 


MUSKRATS 

KNG  before  man  began  to  inherit  the  earth, 
giant  beavers  built  their  dams  and  swam  in 
the  streams  of  long  ago.  For  ages  these  creatures 
have  been  extinct.  Our  forefathers,  during  his- 
torical times,  found  smaller  beavers  abundant, 
and  with  such  zeal  did  they  trap  them  that  this 
modern  race  is  now  well-nigh  vanished.  Nothing 
is  left  to  us  but  the  humble  muskrat, — which  in 
name  and  in  facile  adaptation  to  the  encroach- 
ments of  civilization  has  little  in  common  with  his 
more  noble  predecessor.  Yet  in  many  ways  his 
habits  of  life  bring  to  mind  the  beaver. 

Let  us  make  the  most  of  our  heritage  and  watch 
at  the  edge  of  a  stream  some  evening  in  late 
fall.  If  the  muskrats  have  half  finished  their 
mound  of  sticks  and  mud,  which  is  to  serve  them 
for  a  winter  home,  we  will  be  sure  to  see  some  of 
them  at  work.  Two  lines  of  ripples  furrow  the 
surface  outward  from  the  farther  bank,  and  a 
small  dark  form  clambers  upon  the  pile  of  rub- 
bish. Suddenly  a  spat!  sounds  at  our  very  feet, 
and  a  muskrat  dives  headlong  into  the  water, 
followed  by  the  one  on  the  ground.  Another  spat ! 
and  splash  comes  from  farther  down  the  stream, 
and  so  the  danger  signal  of  the  muskrat  clan  is 


22*  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

passed  along, — a  single  flap  upon  the  water  with 
the  flat  of  the  tail. 


If  we  wait  silent  and  patient,  the  work  will  be 
taken  up  anew,  and  in  the  pale  moonlight  the 
little  labourers  will  fashion  their  house,  lining 
the  upper  chamber  with  soft  grasses,  and  shaping 
the  steep  passageway  which  will  lead  to  the  ever- 
unfrozen  stream-bed.  Either  here  or  in  the  snug 
tunnel  nest  deep  in  the  bank  the  young  muskrats 
are  born,  and  here  they  are  weaned  upon  tooth- 
some mussels  and  succulent  lily  roots. 

Safe  from  all  save  mink  and  owl  and  trap,  these 
sturdy  muskrats  spend  the  summer  in  and  about 
the  streams;  and  when  winter  shuts  down  hard 
and  fast,  they  live  lives  more  interesting  than  any 
of  our  other  animals.  The  ground  freezes  their 
tunnels  into  tubes  of  iron, — the  ice  seals  the 
surface,  past  all  gnawing  out ;  and  yet,  amid  the 
quietly  flowing  water,  where  snow  and  wind  never 
penetrate,  these  warm-blooded,  air-breathing 
muskrats  live  the  winter  through,  with  only  the 
trout  and  eels  for  company.  Their  food  is  the 
bark  and  pith  of  certain  plants ;  their  air  is  what 
leaks  through  the  house  of  sticks,  or  what  may 
collect  at  the  melting-place  of  ice  and  shore. 

Stretched  full  length  on  the  smooth  ice,  let  us 
look  through  into  that  strange  nether  world, 


MUSKRATS  225 

where  the  stress  of  storm  is  unknown.  Far  be- 
neath us  sinuous  black  forms  undulate  through 
the  water, — from  tunnel  to  house  and  back  again. 
As  we  gaze  down  through  the  crystalline  mass, 
occasional  fractures  play  pranks  with  the  objects 
below.  The  animate  shapes  seem  to  take  unto 
themselves  greater  bulk ;  their  tails  broaden,  their 
bodies  become  many  times  longer.  For  a  moment 
the  illusion  is  perfect ;  thousands  of  centuries  have 
slipped  back,  and  we  are  looking  at  the  giant 
beavers  of  old. 

Let  us  give  thanks  that  even  the  humble  musk- 
rat  still  holds  his  own.  A  century  or  two  hence 
and  posterity  may  look  with  wonder  at  his  stuffed 
skin  in  a  museum ! 


NATURE'S  GEOMETRICIANS 

SPIDERS  form  good  subjects  for  a  rainy-day 
study,  and  two  hours  spent  in  a  neglected 
garret  watching  these  clever  little  beings  will 
often  arouse  such  interest  that  we  shall  be  glad 
to  devote  many  days  of  sunshine  to  observing 
those  species  which  hunt  and  build,  and  live  their 
lives  in  the  open  fields.  There  is  no  insect  in  the 
world  with  more  than  six  legs,  and  as  a  spider 
has  eight  he  is  therefore  thrown  out  of  the  com- 
pany of  butterflies,  beetles,  and  wasps  and  finds 
himself  in  a  strange  assemblage.  Even  to  his 
nearest  relatives  he  bears  little  resemblance,  for 
when  we  realise  that  scorpions  and  horseshoe 
crabs  must  call  him  cousin,  we  perceive  that  his  is 
indeed  an  aberrant  bough  on  the  tree  of  creation. 

Leaving  behind  the  old-fashioned  horseshoe 
crabs  to  feel  their  way  slowly  over  the  bottom  of 
the  sea,  the  spiders  have  won  for  themselves  on 
land  a  place  high  above  the  mites,  ticks,  and 
daddy-long-legs,  and  in  their  high  development 
and  intricate  powers  of  resource  they  yield  not 
even  to  the  ants  and  bees. 

Nature  has  provided  spiders  with  an  organ 
filled  always  with  liquid  which,  on  being  exposed 
to  the  air,  hardens,  and  can  be  drawn  out  into 
the  slender  threads  we  know  as  cobweb.  The  silk- 


NATURE'S  GEOMETRICIANS  227 

worm  encases  its  body  with  a  mile  or  more  of 
gleaming  silk,  but  there  its  usefulness  is  ended 
as  far  as  the  silkworm  is  concerned.  But  spiders 
have  found  a  hundred  uses  for  their  cordage, 
some  of  which  are  startlingly  similar  to  human 
inventions. 

Those  spiders  which  burrow  in  the  earth  hang 
their  tunnels  with  silken  tapestries  impervious 
to  wet,  which  at  the  same  time  act  as  lining  to  the 
tube.  Then  the  entrance  may  be  a  trap-door  of 
soil  and  silk,  hinged  with  strong  silken  threads; 
or  in  the  turret  spiders  which  are  found  in  our 
fields  there  is  reared  a  tiny  tower  of  leaves  or 
twigs  bound  together  with  silk.  Who  of  us  has 
not  teased  the  inmate  by  pushing  a  bent  straw 
into  his  stronghold  and  awaiting  his  furious  on- 
slaught upon  the  innocent  stalk ! 

A  list  of  all  the  uses  of  cobwebs  would  take 
more  space  than  we  can  spare;  but  of  these  the 
most  familiar  is  the  snare  set  for  unwary  flies, — 
the  wonderfully  ingenious  webs  which  sparkle 
With  dew  among  the  grasses  or  stretch  from  bush 
to  bush.  The  framework  is  of  strong  webbing  and 
upon  this  is  closely  woven  the  sticky  spiral  which 
is  so  elastic,  so  ethereal,  and  yet  strong  enough  to 
entangle  a  good-sized  insect.  How  knowing  seems 
the  little  worker,  as  when,  the  web  and  his  den  of 
concealment  being  completed,  he  spins  a  strong 
cable  from  the  centre  of  the  web  to  the  entrance 
of  his  watch-tower.  Then,  when  a  trembling  of 


228  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

his  aerial  spans  warns  him  of  a  capture,  how 
eagerly  he  seizes  his  master  cable  and  jerks  away 
on  it,  thus  vibrating  the  whole  structure  and 
making  more  certain  the  confusion  of  his  victim. 

What  is  more  interesting  than  to  see  a  great 
yellow  garden-spider  hanging  head  downward  in 
the  centre  of  his  web,  when  we  approach  too 
closely,  instead  of  deserting  his  snare,  set  it  vi- 
brating back  and  forth  so  rapidly  that  he  becomes 
a  mere  blur;  a  more  certain  method  of  escaping 
the  onslaught  of  a  bird  than  if  he  ran  to  the  shel- 
ter of  a  leaf. 

Those  spiders  which  leap  upon  their  prey  in- 
stead of  setting  snares  for  it  have  still  a  use  for 
their  threads  of  life,  throwing  out  a  cable  as  they 
leap,  to  break  their  fall  if  they  miss  their  foothold. 
What  a  strange  use  of  the  cobweb  is  that  of  the 
little  flying  spiders!  Up  they  run  to  the  top  of 
a  post,  elevate  their  abdomens  and  run  out  several 
threads  which  lengthen  and  lengthen  until  the 
breeze  catches  them  and  away  go  the  wingless 
aeronauts  for  yards  or  for  miles  as  fortune  and 
wind  and  weather  may  dictate!  We  wonder  if 
they  can  cut  loose  or  pull  in  their  balloon  cables 
at  will. 

Many  species  of  spiders  spin  a  case  for  holding 
their  eggs,  and  some  carry  this  about  with  them 
until  the  young  are  hatched. 

A  most  fascinating  tale  would  unfold  could  we 
discover  all  the  uses  of  cobweb  when  the  spiders 


NATURE'S  GEOMETRICIANS  229 

themselves  are  through  with  it.  Certain  it  is  that 
our  ruby-throated  hummingbird  robs  many  webs 
to  fasten  together  the  plant  down,  wood  pulp, 
and  lichens  which  compose  her  dainty  nest. 

Search  the  pond  and  you  will  find  another  mem- 
ber of  the  spider  family  swimming  about  at  ease 
beneath  the  surface,  thoroughly  aquatic  in  habits, 
but  breathing  a  bubble  of  air  which  he  carries 
about  with  him.  When  his  supply  is  low  he  swims 
to  a  submarine  castle  of  silk,  so  air-tight  that  he 
can  keep  it  filled  with  a  large  bubble  of  air,  upon 
which  he  draws  from  time  to  time. 

And  so  we  might  go  on  enumerating  almost  end- 
less uses  for  the  web  which  is  Nature's  gift  to 
these  little  waifs,  who  ages  ago  left  the  sea  and 
have  won  a  place  for  themselves  in  the  sunshine 
among  the  butterflies  and  flowers. 


In  the  balsam-perfumed  shade  of  our  northern 
forests  we  may  sometimes  find  growing  in  abund- 
ance the  tiny  white  dwarf  cornel,  or  bunch-berry, 
as  its  later  cluster  of  scarlet  fruit  makes  the  more 
appropriate  name.  These  miniature  dogwood 
blossoms  (or  imitation  blossoms,  as  the  white  di- 
visions are  not  real  petals)  are  very  conspicuous 
against  the  dark  moss,  and  many  insects  seem  to 
seek  them  out  and  to  find  it  worth  while  to  visit 
them.  If  we  look  very  carefully  we  may  find  that 


230  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

this  discovery  is  not  original  with  us,  for  a  little 
creature  has  long  ago  found  out  the  fondness  of 
bees  and  other  insects  for  these  flowers  and  has 
put  his  knowledge  to  good  use. 

One  day  I  saw  what  I  thought  was  a  swelling 
on  one  part  of  the  flower,  but  a  closer  look  showed 
it  was  a  living  spider.  Here  was  protective 
colouring  carried  to  a  wonderful  degree.  The 
body  of  the  spider  was  white  and  glistening,  like 
the  texture  of  the  white  flower  on  which  he 
rested.  On  his  abdomen  were  two  pink,  oblong 
spots  of  the  same  tint  and  shape  as  the  pinkened 
tips  of  the  false  petals.  Only  by  an  accident  could 
he  be  discovered  by  a  bird,  and  when  I  focussed 
my  camera,  I  feared  that  the  total  lack  of  contrast 
would  make  the  little  creature  all  but  invisible. 

Confident  with  the  instinct  handed  down 
through  many  generations,  the  spider  trusted  im- 
plicitly to  his  colour  for  safety  and  never  moved, 
though  I  placed  the  lens  so  close  that  it  threw  a 
life-sized  image  on  the  ground-glass.  When  all 
was  ready,  and  before  I  had  pressed  the  bulb, 
the  thought  came  to  me  whether  this  wonderful 
resemblance  should  be  attributed  to  the  need  of 
escaping  from  insectivorous  birds,  or  to  the  in- 
creased facility  with  which  the  spider  would  be 
able  to  catch  its  prey.  At  the  very  instant  of  mak- 
ing the  exposure,  before  I  could  will  the  stopping 
of  the  movement  of  my  fingers,  if  I  had  so  wished, 
my  question  was  answered.  A  small,  iridescent, 


NATURE'S  GEOMETRICIANS  231 

green  bee  flew  down,  like  a  spark  of  living  light, 
upon  the  flower,  and,  quick  as  thought,  was  caught 
in  the  jaws  of  the  spider.  Six  of  his  eight  legs 
were  not  brought  into  use,  but  were  held  far  back 
out  of  the  way. 

Here,  on  my  lens,  I  had  a  little  tragedy  of  the 
forest  preserved  for  all  time. 

There  was  no  bud,  no  bloom  upon  the  bowers; 

The  spiders  wove  their  thin  shrouds  night  by  night; 
The  thistle-down,  the  only  ghost  of  flowers, 

Sailed  slowly  by — passed  noiseless  out  of  sight. 

THOMAS  BUCHANAN-  READ. 


OCTOBER 


AUTUMN  HUNTING  WITH  A  FIELD  GLASS 

ONE  of  the  most  uncertain  of  months  is  Octo- 
ber, and  most  difficult  for  the  beginner  in 
bird  study.  If  we  are  just  learning  to  enjoy  the 
life  of  wood  and  field,  we  will  find  hard  tangles 
to  unravel  among  the  birds  of  this  month.  Many 
of  the  smaller  species  which  passed  us  on  their 
northward  journey  last  spring  are  now  returning 
and  will,  perhaps,  tarry  a  week  or  more  before 
starting  on  the  next  nocturnal  stage  of  their  pas- 
sage tropicward.  Many  are  almost  unrecognis- 
able in  their  new  winter  plumage.  Male  scarlet 
tanagers  are  now  green  tanagers,  goldfinches  are 
olive  finches,  while  instead  of  the  beautiful  black, 
white,  and  cream  dress  which  made  so  easy  the 
identification  of  the  meadow  bobolinks  in  the 
spring,  search  will  now  be  rewarded  only  by  some 
plump,  overgrown  sparrows — reedbirds — which 
are  really  bobolinks  in  disguise. 

Orchard  orioles  and  rose-breasted  grosbeaks 
come  and  are  welcomed,  but  the  multitude  of 
female  birds  of  these  species  which  appear  may 
astonish  one,  until  he  discovers  that  the  young 
birds,  both  male  and  female,  are  very  similar  to 
their  mother  in  colour.  We  have  no  difficulty  in 
distinguishing  between  adult  bay-breasted  and 
black  poll  warblers,  but  he  is  indeed  a  keen  ob- 


236  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

server  who  can  point  out  which  is  which  when  the 
young  birds  of  the  year  pass. 

October  is  apt  to  be  a  month  of  extremes.  One 
day  the  woods  are  filled  with  scores  of  birds,  and 
on  the  next  hardly  one  will  be  seen.  Often  a  sin- 
gle species  or  family  will  predominate,  and  one 
will  remember  "thrush  days"  or  " woodpecker 
days."  Yellow-bellied  sapsuckers  cross  the  path, 
flickers  call  and  hammer  in  every  grove,  while  in 
the  orchards,  and  along  the  old  worm-eaten  fences, 
glimpses  of  red,  white,  and  black  show  where  red- 
headed woodpeckers  are  looping  from  trunk  to 
post.  When  we  listen  to  the  warble  of  bluebirds, 
watch  the  mock  courtship  of  the  high-holders,  and 
discover  the  fall  violets  under  leaves  and  burrs, 
for  an  instant  a  feeling  of  spring  rushes  over  us ; 
but  the  yellow  leaves  blow  against  our  face,  the 
wind  sighs  through  the  cedars,  and  we  realise  that 
the  black  hand  of  the  frost  will  soon  end  the  brave 
efforts  of  the  wild  pansies. 

The  thrushes,  ranking  in  some  ways  at  the  head 
of  all  our  birds,  drift  through  the  woods,  brown 
and  silent  as  the  leaves  around  them.  Splendid 
opportunities  they  give  us  to  test  our  powers  of 
woodcraft.  A  thrush  passes  like  a  streak  of 
brown  light  and  perches  on  a  tree  some  distance 
away.  "We  creep  from  tree  to  tree,  darting  nearer 
when  his  head  is  turned.  At  last  we  think  we  are 
within  range,  and  raise  our  weapon.  No,  a  leaf 
is  in  the  way,  and  the  dancing  spots  of  sunlight 


AUTUMN  HUNTING  237 

make  our  aim  uncertain.  We  move  a  little  closer 
and  again  take  aim,  and  this  time  he  cannot  escape 
us.  Carefully  our  double-barrelled  binoculars 
cover  him,  and  we  get  what  powder  and  lead  could 
never  give  us — the  quick  glance  of  the  hazel  eye, 
the  trembling,  half-raised  feathers  on  his  head, 
and  a  long  look  at  the  beautifully  rounded  form 
perched  on  the  twig,  which  a  wanton  shot  would 
destroy  forever.  The  rich  rufous  colouring  of 
the  tail  proclaims  him  a  singer  of  singers — a  her- 
mit thrush.  We  must  be  on  the  watch  these  days 
for  the  beautiful  wood  thrush,  the  lesser  spotted 
veery,  the  well  named  olive-back  and  the  rarer 
gray-cheeked  thrush.  We  may  look  in  vain  among 
the  thrushes  in  our  bird  books  for  the  golden- 
crowned  and  water  thrush,  for  these  walkers  of 
the  woods  are  thrushes  only  in  appearance,  and 
belong  to  the  family  of  warblers.  The  long-tailed 
brown  thrashers,  lovers  of  the  undergrowth,  are 
still  more  thrush-like  in  look,  but  in  our  classifica- 
tions they  hold  the  position  of  giant  cousins  to  the 
wrens.  Even  the  finches  contribute  a  mock  thrush 
to  our  list,  the  big,  spotted-breasted  fox  sparrow, 
but  he  rarely  comes  in  number  before  mid  October 
or  November.  Of  course  we  all  know  that  our 
robin  is  a  true  thrush,  young  robins  having  their 
breasts  thickly  spotted  with  black,  while  even 
the  old  birds  retain  a  few  spots  and  streaks  on 
the  throat. 
If  we  search  behind  the  screen  of  leaves  and 


238  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

grass  around  us  we  may  discover  many  tragedies. 
One  fall  I  picked  up  a  dead  olive-backed  thrush 
in  the  Zoological  Park.  There  were  no  external 
signs  of  violence,  but  I  found  that  the  food  canal 
was  pretty  well  filled  with  blood.  The  next  day 
still  another  bird  was  found  in  the  same  condi- 
tion, and  the  day  after  two  more.  Within  a  week 
I  noted  in  my  journal  eight  of  these  thrushes,  all 
young  birds  of  the  year,  and  all  with  the  same 
symptoms  of  disorder.  I  could  only  surmise  that 
some  poisonous  substance,  some  kind  of  berry, 
perhaps  some  attractive  but  deadly  exotic  from 
the  Botanical  Gardens,  had  tempted  the  inexper- 
ienced birds  and  caused  their  deaths. 

As  we  walk  through  the  October  woods  a  covey 
of  ruffed  grouse  springs  up  before  us,  overhead 
a  flock  of  robins  dashes  by,  and  the  birds  scatter 
to  feed  among  the  wild  grapes.  The  short  round 
wings  of  the  grouse  whirr  noisily,  while  the  quick 
wing  beats  of  the  robins  make  little  sound.  Both 
are  suited  to  their  uses.  The  robin  may  travel 
league  upon  league  to  the  south,  while  the  grouse 
will  not  go  far  except  to  find  new  bud  or  berry 
pastures.  His  wings,  as  we  have  noticed  before, 
are  fitted  rather  for  sudden  emergencies,  to  bound 
up  before  the  teeth  of  the  fox  close  upon  him,  to 
dodge  into  close  cover  when  the  nose  of  the  hound 
almost  touches  his  trembling  body.  When  he 
scrambled  out  of  his  shell  last  May  he  at  once 


AUTUMN  HUNTING  339 

began  to  run  about  and  to  try  his  tiny  wings,  and 
little  by  little  he  taught  himself  to  fly.  But  in  the 
efforts  he  got  many  a  tumble  and  broke  or  lost 
many  a  feather.  Nature,  however,  has  foreseen 
this,  and  to  her  grouse  children  she  gives  several 
changes  of  wing  feathers  to  practise  with,  before 
the  last  strong  winter  quills  come  in. 

How  different  it  is  with  the  robin.  Naked  and 
helpless  he  comes  from  his  blue  shell,  and  only 
one  set  of  wing  quills  falls  to  his  share,  so  it  be- 
hooves him  to  be  careful  indeed  of  these.  He 
remains  in  the  nest  until  they  are  strong  enough 
to  bear  him  up,  and  his  first  attempts  are  care- 
fully supervised  by  his  anxious  parents.  And  so 
the  glimpse  we  had  in  the  October  woods  of  the 
two  pair  of  wings  held  more  of  interest  than  we 
at  first  thought. 

In  many  parts  of  the  country,  about  October 
fifteenth  the  crows  begin  to  flock  back  and  forth 
to  and  from  their  winter  roosts.  In  some  years  it 
is  the  twelfth,  or  again  the  seventeenth,  but  the 
constancy  of  the  mean  date  is  remarkable.  Many 
of  our  winter  visitants  have  already  slipped  into 
our  fields  and  woods  and  taken  the  places  of  some 
of  the  earlier  southern  migrants;  but  the  daily 
passing  of  the  birds  which  delay  their  journey 
until  fairly  pinched  by  the  lack  of  food  at  the 
first  frosts  extends  well  into  November.  It  is 
not  until  the  foliage  on  the  trees  and  bushes  be- 


240  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

comes  threadbare  and  the  last  migrants  have 
flown,  that  our  northern  visitors  begin  to  take  a 
prominent  place  in  our  avifauna. 

Season  of  mists  and  mellow  f ruitf ulneae  I 
Close  bosom  friend  of  the  maturing  son; 

Where  are  the  songs  of  spring?    Ay,  where  are  they? 

Think  not  of  them,  thou  hast  thy  music  too, — 
While  barred  clouds  bloom  the  soft-dying  day, 
And  touch  the  stubble-plains  with  rosy  hue ; 
Then  in  a  wailful  choir  the  small  gnats  mourn 
Among  the  river-sallows,  borne  aloft 

Or  sinking  as  the  light  wind  lives  or  dies; 
And  full-grown  lambs  loud  bleat  from  hilly  bourn; 
Hedge-crickets  sing,  and  now  with  treble  soft 
The  red-breast  whistles  from  a  garden-croft, 
And  gathering  swallows  twitter  in  the  skies. 

JOHN  KEATS. 


A  WOODCHUCK  AND  A  GREBE 

NO  fact  comes  to  mind  which  is  not  more  im- 
pressed upon  us  by  the  valuable  aid  of 
comparisons,  and  Nature  is  ever  offering  antith- 
eses. At  this  season  we  are  generally  given  a 
brief  glimpse — the  last  for  the  year — of  two  crea- 
tures, one  a  mammal,  the  other  a  bird,  which  are 
as  unlike  in  their  activities  as  any  two  living  crea- 
tures could  well  be. 

What  a  type  of  lazy  contentment  is  the  wood- 
chuck,  as  throughout  the  hot  summer  days  he  lies 
on  his  warm  earthen  hillock  at  the  entrance  of  his 
burrow.  His  fat  body  seems  almost  to  flow  down 
the  slope,  and  when  he  waddles  around  for  a 
nibble  of  clover  it  is  with  such  an  effort  that  we 
feel  sure  he  would  prefer  a  comfortable  slow 
starvation,  were  it  not  for  the  unpleasant  feelings 
involved  in  such  a  proceeding. 

As  far  as  I  know  there  are  but  two  things  which 
can  rouse  a  woodchuck  to  strenuous  activity; 
when  a  dog  is  in  pursuit  he  can  make  his  stumpy 
feet  fairly  twinkle  as  he  flies  for  his  burrow,  and 
when  a  fox  or  a  man  is  digging  him  out,  he  can 
literally  worm  his  way  through  the  grojcmd,  fre- 
quently escaping  by  means  of  his  wonderful 
digging  power.  But  when  September  or  October 
days  bring  the  first  chill,  he  gives  one  last  yawn 

241 


242  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

upon  the  world  and  stows  himself  away  at  the 
farthest  end  of  his  tunnel,  there  to  sleep  away 
the  winter.  Little  more  does  he  know  of  the  snows 
and  blizzards  than  the  bird  which  has  flown  to  the 
tropics.  Even  storing  up  fruits  or  roots  is  too 
great  an  effort  for  the  indolent  woodchuck,  and  in 
his  hibernation  stupor  he  draws  only  upon  the  fat 
which  his  lethargic  summer  life  has  accumulated 
within  his  skin. 

As  we  might  expect  from  a  liver  of  such  a  sloth- 
ful life,  the  family  traits  of  the  woodchuck  are  far 
from  admirable  and  there  is  said  to  be  little  affec- 
tion shown  by  the  mother  woodchuck  toward  her 
young.  The  poor  little  fellows  are  pushed  out  of 
the  burrow  and  driven  away  to  shift  for  them- 
selves as  soon  as  possible.  Many  of  them  must 
come  to  grief  from  hawks  and  foxes.  Closely 
related  to  the  squirrels,  these  large  marmots  (for 
they  are  first  cousins  to  the  prairie  dogs)  are  as 
unlike  them  in  activity  as  they  are  in  choice  of  a 
haunt. 

What  a  contrast  to  all  this  is  the  trim  feathered 
form  which  we  may  see  on  the  mill  pond  some 
clear  morning.  Alert  and  wary,  the  grebe  pad- 
dles slowly  along,  watchful  of  every  movement. 
If  we  approach  too  closely,  it  may  settle  little  by 
little,  like  a  submarine  opening  its  water  compart- 
ments, until  nothing  is  visible  except  the  head  with 
its  sharp  beak.  Another  step  and  the  bird  has 
vanished,  swallowed  up  by  the  lake,  and  the 


A  WOODCHUCK  AND  A  GREBE  248 

chances  are  a  hundred  to  one  against  our  dis- 
covering the  motionless  neck  and  the  tiny  eye 
which  rises  again  among  the  water  weeds. 

This  little  grebe  comes  of  a  splendid  line  of 
ancestors,  some  of  which  were  even  more  spe- 
cialised for  an  aquatic  life.  These  paid  the  price 
of  existence  along  lines  too  narrow  and  vanished 
from  the  earth.  The  grebe,  however,  has  so  far 
stuck  to  a  life  which  bids  fair  to  allow  his  race 
safety  for  many  generations,  but  he  is  perilously 
near  the  limit.  Every  fall  he  migrates  far  south- 
ward, leaving  his  northern  lakes,  but  if  the  water 
upon  which  he  floats  should  suddenly  dry  up,  he 
would  be  almost  as  helpless  as  the  gasping  fish; 
for  his  wings  are  too  weak  to  lift  him  from  the 
ground.  He  must  needs  have  a  long  take-off,  a 
flying  start,  aided  by  vigorous  paddling  along  the 
surface  of  the  water,  before  he  can  rise  into  the 
air. 

Millions  of  years  ago  there  lived  birds  built  on 
the  general  grebe  plan  and  who  doubtless  were 
derived  from  the  same  original  stock,  but  which 
lived  in  the  great  seas  of  that  time.  Far  from 
being  able  to  migrate,  every  external  trace  of 
wing  was  gone  and  these  great  creatures,  almost 
as  large  as  a  man  and  with  sharp  teeth  in  their 
beaks,  must  have  hitched  themselves  like  seals 
along  the  edge  of  the  beach,  and  perhaps  laid  their 
«ggs  on  the  pebbles  as  do  the  terns  to-day. 

The  grebe,  denied  the  power  to  rise  easily  and 


244  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

even  to  run  about  on  land  without  considerable 
effort,  is,  however,  splendidly  adapted  to  its  water 
life,  and  the  rapidity  of  its  motions  places  it  near 
the  head  of  the  higher  active  creatures, — with  the 
woodchuck  near  the  opposite  extreme. 


THE  VOICE  OF  ANIMALS 

THROUGHOUT  the  depths  of  the  sea,  silence, 
as  well  as  absolute  darkness,  prevails.  The 
sun  penetrates  only  a  short  distance  below  the 
surface,  at  most  a  few  hundred  feet,  and  all  dis- 
turbance from  storms  ceases  far  above  that  depth, 
Where  the  pressure  is  a  ton  or  more  to  the  square 
inch,  it  is  very  evident  that  no  sound  vibration 
can  exist.  Near  the  surface  it  is  otherwise.  The 
majority  of  fishes  have  no  lungs  and  of  course  no 
Yocal  chords,  but  certain  species,  such  as  the  drum- 
fish,  are  able  to  distend  special  sacs  with  gas  or 
air,  or  in  other  ways  to  produce  sounds.  One 
variety  succeeds  in  producing  a  number  of  sounds 
by  gritting  the  teeth,  and  when  the  male  fish  is 
attempting  to  charm  the  female  by  dashing  round 
her,  spreading  his  fins  to  display  his  brilliant 
colours,  this  gritting  of  the  teeth  holds  a  promi- 
nent place  in  the  performance,  although  whether 
the  fair  finny  one  makes  her  choice  because  she 
prefers  a  high-toned  grit  instead  of  a  lower  one 
can  only  be  imagined!  But  vibrations,  whether 
of  sound  or  of  water  pressure,  are  easily  carried 
near  the  surface,  and  fishes  are  provided  with 
organs  to  receive  and  record  them.  One  class  of 
such  organs  has  little  in  common  with  ears,  as  we 
speak  of  them;  they  are  merely  points  on  the  head 

245 


246  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

and  body  which  are  susceptible  to  the  watery 
vibrations.  These  points  are  minute  cavities,  sur- 
rounded with  tiny  cilia  or  hairs,  which  connect 
with  the  ends  of  the  nerves. 

The  ears  of  the  frogs  and  all  higher  animals 
are,  like  the  tongue-bone  and  the  lower  jaw, 
derived  originally  from  portions  of  gills,  which 
the  aquatic  ancestors  of  living  animals  used  to 
draw  the  oxygen  from  the  water.  This  is  one  of 
the  most  wonderful  and  interesting  changes  which 
the  study  of  evolution  has  unfolded  to  our 
knowledge. 

The  disproportionate  voices  are  produced  by 
means  of  an  extra  amount  of  skin  on  the  throat, 
which  is  distensible  and  acts  as  a  drum  to  increase 
the  volume  of  sound.  In  certain  bullfrogs  which 
grow  to  be  as  large  as  the  head  of  a  man,  the  bel- 
lowing power  is  deafening  and  is  audible  for  miles. 
In  Chile  a  small  species  of  frog,  measuring  only 
about  an  inch  in  length,  has  two  internal  vocal 
sacs  which  are  put  to  a  unique  use.  Where  these 
frogs  live,  water  is  very  scarce  and  the  polliwogs 
have  no  chance  to  live  and  develop  in  pools,  as  is 
ordinarily  the  case.  So  when  the  eggs  are  laid, 
they  are  immediately  taken  by  the  male  frog  and 
placed  in  these  capacious  sacs,  which  serve  as 
nurseries  for  them  all  through  their  hatching  and 
growing  period  of  life.  Although  there  is  no  wa- 
ter in  these  chambers,  yet  their  gills  grow  out  and 
are  reabsorbed,  just  as  is  the  case  in  ordinary 


THE  VOICE  OF  ANIMALS  247 

tadpoles.  When  their  legs  are  fully  developed, 
they  clamber  up  to  their  father's  broad  mouth 
and  get  their  first  glimpse  of  the  great  world  from 
his  lower  lip.  When  fifteen  partly  developed 
polliwogs  are  found  in  the  pouches  of  one  little 
frog,  he  looks  as  if  he  had  gorged  himself  to  burst- 
ing with  tadpoles.  To  such  curious  uses  may  vocal 
organs  be  put. 

Turtles  are  voiceless,  except  at  the  period  of 
laying  eggs,  when  they  acquire  a  voice,  which  even 
in  the  largest  is  very  tiny  and  piping,  like  some 
very  small  insect  rather  than  a  two-hundred- 
pound  tortoise.  Some  of  the  lizards  utter  shrill, 
insect-like  squeaks. 

A  species  of  gecko,  a  small,  brilliantly  coloured 
lizard,  has  the  back  of  its  tail  armed  with  plates. 
These  it  has  a  habit  of  rubbing  together,  and  by 
this  means  it  produces  a  shrill,  chirruping  sound, 
which  actually  attracts  crickets  and  grasshoppers 
toward  the  noise,  so  that  they  fall  easy  prey  to 
this  reptilian  trapper.  So  in  colour,  sound,  mo- 
tion, and  many  other  ways,  animals  act  and  react 
upon  each  other,  a  useful  and  necessary  habit 
being  perverted  by  an  enemy,  so  that  the  death  of 
the  creature  results.  Yet  it  would  never  be  claimed 
that  the  lizard  thought  out  this  mimicking.  It 
probably  found  that  certain  actions  resulted  in  the 
approach  of  good  dinners,  and  in  its  offspring  this 
action  might  be  partly  instinctive,  and  each  gen- 
eration would  perpetuate  it.  If  it  had  been  an 


248  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

intentional  act,  other  nearly  related  species  of 
lizards  would  imitate  it,  as  soon  as  they  perceived 
the  success  which  attended  it. 

That  many  animals  have  a  kind  of  language  is 
nowadays  admitted  to  be  a  truism,  but  this  is  more 
evident  among  mammals  and  birds,  and,  review- 
ing the  classes  of  the  former,  we  find  a  more  or 
less  defined  ascending  complexity  and  increased 
number  of  varying  sounds  as  we  pass  from  the 
lower  forms — kangaroos  and  moles — to  the  higher 
herb-and-flesh-eaters,  and  particularly  monkeys. 

Squeaks  and  grunts  constitute  the  vocabulary, 
if  we  dignify  it  by  that  name,  of  the  mammals. 
The  sloths,  those  curious  animals  whose  entire 
life  is  spent  clinging  to  the  underside  of  branches, 
on  whose  leaves  they  feed,  may  be  said  almost  to 
be  voiceless,  so  seldom  do  they  give  utterance  to 
the  nameless  wail  which  constitutes  their  only 
utterance.  Even  when  being  torn  to  pieces  by  an 
enemy,  they  offer  no  resistance  and  emit  no  sound, 
but  fold  their  claws  around  their  body  and  sub- 
mit to  the  inevitable  as  silently  and  as  stoically 
as  did  ever  an  ancient  Spartan. 

Great  fear  of  death  will  often  cause  an  animal 
to  utter  sounds  which  are  different  from  those 
produced  under  any  other  conditions.  When  an 
elephant  is  angry  or  excited,  his  trumpeting  is 
terribly  loud  and  shrill;  but  when  a  mother  ele- 
phant is  "talking"  to  her  child,  while  the  same 
sonorous,  metallic  quality  is  present,  yet  it  is 


THE  VOICE  OF  ANIMALS  249 

wonderfully  softened  and  modulated.  A  horse  is 
a  good  example  of  what  the  fear  of  death  will  do. 
The  ordinary  neigh  of  a  horse  is  very  familiar, 
but  in  battle  when  mortally  wounded,  or  having 
lost  its  master  and  being  terribly  frightened,  a 
horse  will  scream,  and  those  who  have  heard  it, 
say  it  is  more  awful  than  the  cries  of  pain  of  a 
human  being. 

Deer  and  elk  often  astonish  one  by  the  peculiar 
sounds  which  they  produce.  An  elk  can  bellow 
loudly,  especially  when  fighting;  but  when  mem- 
bers of  a  herd  call  to  each  other,  or  when  sur- 
prised by  some  unusual  appearance,  they  whistlf 
- — a  sudden,  sharp  whistle,  like  the  tin  mouth- 
pieces with  revolving  discs,  which  were  at  one 
time  so  much  in  evidence. 

The  growl  of  a  bear  differs  greatly  under  vary- 
ing circumstances.  There  is  the  playful  growl, 
uttered  when  two  individuals  are  wrestling,  and 
the  terrible  " sound" — no  word  expresses  it — to 
which  a  bear,  cornered  and  driven  to  the  last 
extremity,  gives  utterance — fear,  hate,  dread,  and 
awful  passion  mingled  and  expressed  in  sound. 
One  can  realise  the  fearful  terror  which  this  in- 
spires only  when  one  has,  as  I  have,  stood  up  to  a 
mad  bear,  repelling  charge  after  charge,  with  only 
an  iron  pike  between  one's  self  and  those  power- 
ful fangs  and  claws.  The  long-drawn  moan  of  a 
polar  bear  on  a  frosty  night  is  another  phase ;  this, 
too,  is  expressive,  but  only  of  those  wonderful 


250  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

Arctic  scenes  where  night  and  day  are  as  one  to 
this  great  seal-hunter. 

The  dog  has  made  man  his  god, — giving  up  his 
life  for  his  master  would  be  but  part  of  his  way 
of  showing  his  love  if  he  had  it  in  his  power  to  do 
more.  So,  too,  the  dog  has  attempted  to  adapt 
his  speech  to  his  master 's,  and  the  result  is  a  bark. 
No  wild  coyotes  or  wolves  bark,  but  when  bands 
of  dogs  descended  from  domesticated  animals  run 
wild,  their  howls  are  modulated  and  a  certain  un- 
mistakable barking  quality  imparted.  The  drawn- 
out  howl  of  a  great  gray  wolf  is  an  impressive 
sound  and  one  never  to  be  forgotten.  Only  the 
fox  seems  to  possess  the  ability  to  bark  in  its 
native  tongue.  The  sounds  which  the  cats,  great 
and  small,  reproduce  are  most  varied.  Nothing 
can  be  much  more  intimidating  than  the  roar  of  a 
lion,  or  more  demoniacal  than  the  arguments 
which  our  house-pets  carry  on  at  night  on  garden 
fences. 

What  use  the  sounds  peculiar  to  sea-lions  sub- 
serve in  their  life  on  the  great  ocean,  or  their 
haunts  along  the  shore,  can  only  be  imagined,  but 
surely  such  laudable  perseverance,  day  after  day, 
to  out-utter  each  other,  must  be  for  some  good 
reason ! 

Volumes  have  been  written  concerning  the 
voices  of  the  two  remaining  groups  of  animals — - 
monkeys  and  birds.  In  the  great  family  of  the 
four-handed  folk,  more  varieties  of  sound  are  pro- 


THE  VOICE  OF  ANIMALS  251 

duced  than  would  be  thought  possible.  Some  of 
the  large  baboons  are  awful  in  their  vocalisations. 
Terrible  agony  or  remorse  is  all  that  their  moans 
suggest  to  us,  no  matter  what  frame  of  mind  on 
the  part  of  the  baboon  induces  them.  Of  all  verte- 
brates the  tiny  marmosets  reproduce  most  exactly 
the  chirps  of  crickets  and  similar  insects,  and  to 
watch  one  of  these  little  human  faces,  see  its  mouth 
open,  and  instead  of,  as  seems  natural,  words  issu- 
ing forth,  to  hear  these  shrill  squeaks  is  most  sur- 
prising. Young  orang-utans,  in  their  "talk,"  as 
well  as  in  their  actions,  are  counterparts  of  human 
infants.  The  scream  of  frantic  rage  when  a 
banana  is  offered  and  jerked  away,  the  wheedling 
tone  when  the  animal  wishes  to  be  comforted  by 
the  keeper  on  account  of  pain  or  bruise,  and  the 
sound  of  perfect  contentment  and  happiness  when 
petted  by  the  keeper  whom  it  learns  to  love, — all 
are  almost  indistinguishable  from  like  utterances 
of  a  human  child. 

But  how  pitiless  is  the  inevitable  change  of  the 
next  few  years !  Slowly  the  bones  of  the  cranium 
thicken,  partly  filling  up  the  brain  cavity,  and 
slowly  but  surely  the  ape  loses  all  affection  for 
those  who  take  care  of  it.  More  and  more  morose 
and  sullen  it  becomes  until  it  reaches  a  stage  of 
unchangeable  ferocity  and  must  be  doomed  to 
close  confinement,  never  again  to  be  handled  or 
caressed. 


THE  NAMES  OF  ANIMALS,  FROGS,  AND 
FISH 

WHEN,  during  the  lazy  autumn  days,  the 
living  creatures  seem  for  a  time  to  have 
taken  themselves  completely  beyond  our  ken,  it 
may  be  interesting  to  delve  among  old  records  and 
descriptions  of  animals  and  see  how  the  names  by 
which  we  know  them  first  came  to  be  given.  Many 
of  our  English  names  have  an  unsuspected  ances- 
try, which,  through  past  centuries,  has  been 
handed  down  to  us  through  many  changes  of 
spelling  and  meaning,  of  romantic  as  well  as  his- 
torical interest. 

How  many  people  regard  the  scientific  Latin 
and  Greek  names  of  animals  with  horror,  as  being 
absolutely  beyond  their  comprehension,  and  yet 
how  interesting  these  names  become  when  we  look 
them  squarely  in  the  face,  analyse  them  and  find 
the  appropriateness  of  their  application. 

When  you  say  "wolf"  to  a  person,  the  image 
of  that  wild  creature  comes  instantly  to  his  mind, 
but  if  you  ask  him  why  it  is  called  a  wolf,  a  hun- 
dred chances  to  one  he  will  look  blankly  at  you. 
It  is  the  old  fault,  so  common  among  us  human 
beings,  of  ignoring  the  things  which  lie  nearest 
us.  Or  perhaps  your  friend  shares  the  state  of 
mind  of  the  puzzled  old  lady,  who,  after  looking 


NAMES  OF  ANIMALS,  FROGS,  AND  FISH     253 

over  a  collection  of  fossil  bones,  said  that  she 
could  understand  how  these  bones  had  been  pre- 
served, and  millions  of  years  later  had  been  dis- 
covered, but  it  was  a  mystery  to  her  how  anyone 
could  know  the  names  of  these  ancient  animals 
after  such  a  lapse  of  time ! 

Some  of  the  names  of  the  commonest  animals 
are  lost  in  the  dimness  of  antiquity,  such  as  fox, 
weasel,  sheep,  dog,  and  baboon.  Of  the  origin 
of  these  we  have  forever  lost  the  clew.  With 
camel  we  can  go  no  farther  back  than  the  Latin 
word  camelus,  and  elephant  balks  us  with  the  old 
Hindoo  word  elepli,  which  means  an  ox.  The  old 
root  of  the  word  wolf  meant  one  who  tears  or 
rends,  and  the  application  to  this  animal  is  obvi- 
ous. In  several  English  and  German  names  of 
persons,  we  have  handed  down  to  us  a  relic  of  the 
old  fashion  of  applying  wolf  as  a  compliment  to  a 
warrior  or  soldier.  For  example,  Adolph  means 
noble-wolf,  and  Rudolph  glory-wolf. 

Lynx  is  from  the  same  Latin  word  as  the  word 
lux  (light)  and  probably  was  given  to  these  wild- 
cats on  account  of  the  brightness  of  their  eyes. 
Lion  is,  of  course,  from  the  Latin  leo,  which  word, 
in  turn,  is  lost  far  back  in  the  Egyptian  tongue, 
where  the  word  for  the  king  of  beasts  was  Idbu. 
The  compound  word  leopard  is  first  found  in  the 
Persian  language,  where  pars  stands  for  panther. 
Seal,  very  appropriately,  was  once  a  word  mean- 
ing "of  the  sea";  close  to  the  Latin  sal,  the  sea. 


254  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

Many  names  of  animals  are  adapted  from  words 
in  the  ancient  language  of  the  natives  in  whose 
country  the  creatures  were  first  discovered. 
Puma,  jaguar,  tapir,  and  peccary  (from  paquires) 
are  all  names  from  South  American  Indian  lan- 
guages. The  coyote  and  ocelot  were  called  coyotl 
and  ocelotl  by  the  Mexicans  long  before  Cortes 
landed  on  their  shores.  Zebra,  gorilla,  and  chim- 
panzee are  native  African  words,  and  orang-utan 
is  Malay,  meaning  Man  of  the  Woods.  Cheetah 
is  from  some  East  Indian  tongue,  as  is  tahr,  the 
name  of  the  wild  goat  of  the  Himalayas.  Gnu  is 
from  the  Hottentots,  and  giraffe  from  the  Arabic 
zaraf.  Aoudad,  the  Barbary  wild  sheep,  is  the 
French  form  of  the  Moorish  name  audad. 

The  native  Indians  of  our  own  country  are  pass- 
ing rapidly,  and  before  many  years  their  race  may 
be  extinct,  but  their  musical,  euphonious  names 
of  the  animals  they  knew  so  well,  often  pleased  the 
ear  of  the  early  settlers,  and  in  many  instances 
will  be  a  lasting  memorial  as  long  as  these  forest 
creatures  of  our  United  States  survive. 

Thus,  moose  is  from  the  Indian  word  mouswahf 
meaning  wood-eater;  skunk  from  seganku,  an 
Algonquin  term;  wapiti,  in  the  Cree  language, 
meant  white  deer,  and  was  originally  applied  to 
the  Rocky  Mountain  goat,  but  the  name  is  now 
restricted  to  the  American  elk.  Caribou  is  also 
an  Indian  word ;  opossum  is  from  possowne^  and 


NAMES  OF  ANIMALS,  FROGS,  AND  FISH     255 

raccoon  is  from  the  Indian  arrathkune  (by  further 
apheresis,  coon). 

Rhinoceros  is  pure  Greek,  meaning  nose-horned, 
but  beaver  has  indeed  had  a  rough  time  of  it  in 
its  travels  through  various  languages.  It  is  hardly 
recognisable  as  bebrus,  babbru,  and  bbru.  The 
latter  is  the  ultimate  root  of  our  word  brown. 
The  original  application  was,  doubtless,  on  ac- 
count of  the  colour  of  the  creature's  fur.  Otter 
takes  us  back  to  Sanskrit,  where  we  find  it  udra. 
The  significance  of  this  word  is  in  its  close  kin- 
ship to  udan,  meaning  water. 

The  little  mouse  hands  his  name  down  through 
the  years  from  the  old,  old  Sanskrit,  the  root 
meaning  to  steal.  Many  people  who  never  heard 
of  Sanskrit  have  called  him  and  his  descendants 
by  terms  of  homologous  significance !  The  word 
muscle  is  from  the  same  root,  and  was  applied 
from  a  fancied  resemblance  of  the  movement  of 
the  muscle  beneath  the  skin  to  a  mouse  in  motion 
— not  a  particularly  quieting  thought  to  certain 
members  of  the  fair  sex !  The  origin  of  the  word 
rat  is  less  certain,  but  it  may  have  been  derived 
from  the  root  of  the  Latin  word  radere,  to  scratch, 
or  rodere,  to  gnaw.  Rodent  is  derived  from  the 
latter  term.  Cat  is  also  in  doubt,  but  is  first 
recognised  in  catalus,  a  diminutive  of  canis,  a  dog. 
It  was  applied  to  the  young  of  almost  any  animal, 
as  we  use  the  words  pup,  kitten,  cub,  and  so  forth. 


256  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

Bear  is  the  result  of  tongue-twisting  from  the 
Latin  fera,  a  wild  beast. 

Ape  is  from  the  Sanskrit  kapi;  leap  in  the  same 
language  means  tremble ;  but  the  connection  is  not 
clear.  Lemur,  the  name  given  to  that  low  family 
of  monkeys,  is  from  the  plural  Latin  word 
lemures,  meaning  ghost  or  spectre.  This  has 
reference  to  the  nocturnal  habits,  stealthy  gait, 
and  weird  expression  of  these  large-eyed  crea- 
tures. Antelope  is  probably  of  Grecian  origin, 
and  was  originally  applied  to  a  half -mythical  ani- 
mal, located  on  the  banks  of  the  Euphrates,  and 
described  as  "very  savage  and  fleet,  and  having 
long,  saw-like  horns  with  which  it  could  cut  down 
trees.  It  figures  largely  in  the  peculiar  fauna  of 
heraldry." 

Deer  is  of  obscure  origin,  but  may  have  been 
an  adjective  meaning  wild.  Elk  is  derived  from 
the  same  root  as  eland,  and  the  history  of  the  lat- 
ter word  is  an  interesting  one.  It  meant  a 
sufferer,  and  was  applied  by  the  Teutons  to  the 
elk  of  the  Old  World  on  account  of  the  awkward 
gait  and  stiff  movements  of  this  ungainly  animal. 
But  in  later  years  the  Dutch  carried  the  same 
word,  eland,  to  South  Africa,  and  there  gave  it 
to  the  largest  of  the  tribe  of  antelopes,  in  which 
sense  it  is  used  by  zoologists  to-day, 

Porcupine  has  arisen  from  two  Latin  words, 
porcus,  a  hog,  and  spina,  a  spine;  hence,  appro- 
priately, a  spiny-hog.  Buffalo  may  once  have 


NAMES  OF  ANIMALS,  FROGS,  AND  FISH     257 

been  some  native  African  name.  In  the  vista  of 
time,  our  earliest  glimpse  of  it  is  as  bubalus, 
which  was  applied  both  to  the  wild  ox  and  to  a 
species  of  African  antelope.  Fallow  deer  is  from 
fallow,  meaning  pale,  or  yellowish,  while  axis,  as 
applied  to  the  deer  so  common  in  zoological  gar- 
dens, was  first  mentioned  by  Pliny  and  is  doubt- 
less of  East  Indian  origin.  The  word  bison  is  from 
the  Anglo-Saxon  wesend,  but  beyond  Pliny  its 
ultimate  origin  eludes  all  research. 

Marmot,  through  various  distortions,  looms  up 
from  Latin  times  as  mus  montanus,  literally  a 
mountain  mouse.  Badger  is  from  badge,  in  allu- 
sion to  the  bands  of  white  fur  on  its  forehead. 
The  verb  meaning  to  badger  is  derived  from  the 
old  cruel  sport  of  baiting  badgers  with  dogs. 

Monkey  is  from  the  same  root  as  monna,  a 
Ionian ;  more  especially  an  old  crone,  in  reference 
to  the  fancied  resemblance  of  the  weazened  face 
of  a  monkey  to  that  of  a  withered  old  woman. 
Madam  and  madonna  are  other  forms  of  words 
from  the  same  root,  so  wide  and  sweeping  are  the 
changes  in  meaning  which  usage  and  time  can  give 
to  words. 

Squirrel  has  a  poetic  origin  in  the  Greek  lan- 
guage; its  original  meaning  being  shadow-tail. 
Tiger  is  far  more  intricate.  The  old  Persian  word 
tir  meant  arrow,  while  tighra  signified  sharp.  The 
application  to  this  great  animal  was  in  allusion  to 
the  swiftness  with  which  the  tiger  leaps  upon  his 


258  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

prey.  The  river  Tigris,  meaning  literally  the 
river  Arrow,  is  named  thus  from  the  swiftness 
of  its  current. 

As  to  the  names  of  reptiles  it  is,  of  course,  to 
the  Romans  that  we  are  chiefly  indebted,  as  in  the 
case  of  reptile  from  reptilus,  meaning  creeping; 
and  crocodile  from  dilus,  a  lizard.  Serpent  is  also 
from  the  Latin  serpens,  creeping,  and  this  from 
the  old  Sanskrit  root,  sarp,  with  the  same  mean- 
ing. This  application  of  the  idea  of  creeping  is 
again  found  in  the  word  snake,  which  originally 
came  from  the  Sanskrit  naga. 

Tortoise  harks  back  to  the  Latin  tortus,  mean- 
ing twisted  (hence  our  word  tortuous)  and  came 
to  be  applied  to  these  slow  creatures  because  of 
their  twisted  legs.  In  its  evolution  through  many 
tongues  it  has  suffered  numbers  of  variations ;  one 
of  these  being  turtle,  which  we  use  to-day  to  desig- 
nate the  smaller  land  tortoises.  Terrapin  and  its 
old  forms  terrapene  and  turpin,  on  the  contrary, 
originated  in  the  New  World,  in  the  language  of 
the  American  Redskin. 

Colra-de-capello  is  Portuguese  for  hooded 
snake,  while  python  is  far  older,  the  same  word 
being  used  by  the  Greeks  to  denote  a  spirit,  demon, 
or  evil-soothsayer.  This  name  was  really  given 
to  designate  any  species  of  large  serpent.  Boa  is 
Latin  and  was  also  applied  to  a  large  snake,  while 
the  importance  of  the  character  of  size  is  seen, 
perhaps,  in  our  words  bos  and  bovine. 


NAMES  OF  ANIMALS,  FROGS,  AND  FISH     259 

The  word  viper  is  interesting ;  coming  directly 
from  the  Romans,  who  wrote  it  vipera.  This  in 
turn  is  a  contraction  of  the  feminine  form  of  the 
adjective  vivipera,  in  reference  to  the  habit  of 
these  snakes  of  bringing  forth  their  young  alive. 

Lizard,  through  such  forms  as  lesarde,  lezard, 
lagarto,  lacerto,  is  from  the  Latin  lacertus,  a 
lizard ;  while  closely  related  is  the  word  alligator 
by  way  of  lagarto,  aligarto,  to  alligator.  The 
prefix  may  have  arisen  as  a  corruption  of  an  arti- 
cle and  a  noun,  as  in  the  modern  Spanish  el 
lagarto, — a  lizard. 

Monitor  is  Latin  for  one  who  reminds,  these 
lizards  being  so  called  because  they  are  supposed 
to  give  warning  of  the  approach  of  crocodiles. 
Asp  can  be  carried  back  to  the  aspis  of  the 
Romans,  no  trace  being  found  in  the  dim  vistas  of 
preceding  tongues. 

Gecko,  the  name  of  certain  wall-hunting  lizards, 
is  derived  from  their  croaking  cry;  while  iguana 
is  a  Spanish  name  taken  from  the  old  native 
Haytian  appellation  liuana. 

Of  the  word  frog  we  know  nothing,  although 
through  the  medium  of  many  languages  it  has  had 
as  thorough  an  evolution  as  in  its  physical  life. 
We  must  also  admit  our  ignorance  in  regard  to 
toad,  backward  search  revealing  only  tade,  tode, 
ted,  toode,  and  tadie,  the  root  baffling  all  study. 
Polliwog  and  tadpole  are  delightfully  easy.  Old 
forms  of  polliwog  are  pollywig,  polewiggle,  and 


260  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

pollwiggle.  This  last  gives  us  the  clew  to  our 
spelling — pollwiggle,  which,  reversed  and  inter- 
preted in  a  modern  way,  is  wigglehead,  a  most 
appropriate  name  for  these  lively  little  black  fel- 
lows. Tadpole  is  somewhat  similar ;  toad-pole,  or 
toad's-head,  also  very  apt  when  we  think  of  these 
small-bodied  larval  forms. 

Salamander,  which  is  a  Greek  word  of  Eastern 
origin,  was  applied  in  the  earliest  times  to  a  lizard 
considered  to  have  the  power  of  extinguishing  fire. 
Newt  has  a  strange  history;  originating  in  a 
wrong  division  of  two  words,  "an  ewte,"  the  lat- 
ter being  derived  from  eft,  which  is  far  more  cor- 
rect than  newt,  though  in  use  now  in  only  a  few 
places.  Few  fishermen  have  ever  thought  of  the 
interesting  derivation  of  the  names  which  they 
know  so  well.  Of  course  there  are  a  host  of  fishes 
named  from  a  fancied  resemblance  to  familiar 
terrestrial  animals  or  other  things;  such  as  the 
catfish,  and  those  named  after  the  dog,  hog,  horse, 
cow,  trunk,  devil,  angel,  sun,  and  moon. 

The  word  fish  has  passed  through  many  varied 
forms  since  it  was  piscis  in  the  old  Latin  tongue, 
and  the  same  is  true  of  shark  and  skate,  which  in 
the  same  language  were  carcharus  and  squatus. 
Trout  was  originally  tructa,  which  in  turn  is  lost 
in  a  very  old  Greek  word,  meaning  eat  or  gnaw. 
Perch  harks  back  to  the  Latin  perca,  and  the 
Romans  had  it  from  the  Greeks,  among  whom  it 
meant  spotted.  The  Romans  said  minutus  when 


NAMES  OF  ANIMALS,  FROGS,  AND  FISH     261 

they  meant  small,  and  nowadays  when  we  speak 
of  any  very  small  fish  we  say  minnow.  Alewife 
in  old  English  was  applied  to  the  women,  usually 
very  stout  dames,  who  kept  alehouses.  The  corpu- 
lency of  the  fish  to  which  the  same  term  is  given 
explains  its  derivation. 

The  pike  is  so  named  from  the  sharp,  pointed 
snout  and  long,  slim  body,  bringing  to  mind  the 
old-time  weapon  of  that  name;  while  pickerel 
means  doubly  a  little  pike,  the  er  and  el  (as  in  cock 
and  cockerel)  both  being  diminutives.  Smelt  was 
formerly  applied  to  any  small  fish  and  comes,  per- 
haps, from  the  Anglo-Saxon  smeolt,  which  meant 
smooth — the  smoothness  and  slipperiness  of  the 
fish  suggesting  the  name. 

Salmon  comes  directly  from  the  Latin  salmo,  a 
salmon,  which  literally  meant  the  leaper,  from 
salire — to  leap.  Sturgeon,  from  the  Saxon  was 
siiriga,  literally  a  stirrer,  from  the  habit  of  the 
fish  of  stirring  up  the  mud  at  the  bottom  of  the 
water.  Dace,  through  its  mediaeval  forms  darce 
and  dars,  is  from  the  same  root  as  our  word  dart, 
given  on  account  of  the  swiftness  of  the  fish. 

Anchovy  is  interesting  as  perhaps  from  the 
Basque  word  antzua,  meaning  dry ;  hence  the  dried 
fish ;  and  mullet  is  from  the  Latin  mullus.  Herring 
is  well  worth  following  back  to  its  origin.  We 
know  that  the  most  marked  habit  of  fishes  of  this 
type  is  their  herding  together  in  great  schools  or 
masses  or  armies.  In  the  very  high  German  heri 


262  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

meant  an  army  or  host;  hence  our  word  harry 
and,  with  a  suffix,  herring. 

Hake  in  Norwegian  means  hook,  and  the  term 
hake  or  hook-fish  was  given  because  of  the  hooked 
character  of  the  under-jaw.  Mackerel  comes  from 
macarellus  and  originally  the  Latin  macula — 
spotted,  from  the  dark  spots  on  the  body.  Roach 
and  ray  both  come  from  the  Latin  raria,  applied 
then  as  in  the  latter  case  now  to  bottom-living 
sharks. 

Flounder  comes  from  the  verb,  which  in  turn 
is  derived  from  flounce,  a  word  which  is  lost  in 
antiquity.  Tarpon  (and  the  form  tarpum)  may 
be  an  Indian  word ;  while  there  is  no  doubt  as  to 
grouper  coming  from  garrupa,  a  native  Mexican 
name.  Chubb  (a  form  of  cub)  meant  a  chunky 
mass  or  lump,  referring  to  the  body  of  the  fish. 
Shad  is  lost  in  sceadda,  Anglo-Saxon  for  the  same 
fish. 

Lamprey  and  halibut  both  have  histories,  which, 
at  first  glance,  we  would  never  suspect,  although 
the  forms  have  changed  but  little.  The  former 
have  a  habit  of  fastening  themselves  for  hours  to 
stones  and  rocks,  by  means  of  their  strong,  suck- 
ing mouths.  So  the  Latin  form  of  the  word  lam- 
petra,  or  literally  lick-rock,  is  very  appropriate. 
Halibut  is  equally  so.  But  or  bot  in  several  lan- 
guages means  a  certain  flounder-like  fish,  and  in 
olden  times  this  fish  was  eaten  only  on  holidays 


NAMES  OF  ANIMALS,  FROGS,  AND  FISH     263 

(i.e.f  holy  days).    Hence  the  combination  halibut 
means  really  holy-flounder. 

The  meaning  of  these  words  and  many  others 
are  worth  knowing,  and  it  is  well  to  be  able  to 
answer  with  other  than  ignorance  the  question 
"What 'sin  a  name?" 


THE  DYING  YEAE 

WHEN  a  radical  change  of  habits  occurs,  as 
in  the  sapsucker,  deviating  so  sharply 
from  the  ancient  principles  of  its  family,  many 
other  forms  of  life  about  it  are  influenced,  indi- 
rectly, but  in  a  most  interesting  way.  In  its 
tippling  operations  it  wastes  quantities  of  sap 
which  exudes  from  the  numerous  holes  and 
trickles  down  the  bark  of  the  wounded  tree.  This 
proves  a  veritable  feast  for  the  forlorn  remnant 
of  wasps  and  butterflies, — the  year's  end  strag- 
glers whose  flower  calyces  have  fallen  and  given 
place  to  swelling  seeds. 

Swiftly  up  wind  they  come  on  the  scent,  eager 
as  hounds  on  the  trail,  and  they  drink  and  drink 
of  the  sweets  until  they  become  almost  incapable 
of  flying.  But,  after  all,  the  new  lease  of  life  is  a 
vain  semblance  of  better  things.  Their  eggs  have 
long  since  been  laid  and  their  mission  in  life  ended, 
and  at  the  best  their  existence  is  but  a  matter  of 
days. 

It  is  a  sad  thing  this,  and  sometimes  our  heart 
hardens  against  Nature  for  the  seeming  cruelty 
of  it  all.  Forever  and  always,  year  after  year, 
century  upon  century,  the  same  tale  unfolds  itself, 
— the  sacrifice  of  the  individual  for  the  good  of  the 

264 


THE  DYING  YEAR  265 

race.  A  hundred  drones  are  tended  and  reared, 
all  but  one  to  die  in  vain;  a  thousand  seeds  are 
sown  to  rot  or  to  sprout  and  wither ;  a  million  lit- 
tle codfish  hatch  and  begin  life  hopefully,  perhaps 
all  to  succumb  save  one ;  a  million  million  shrimp 
and  pteropods  paddle  themselves  here  and  there 
in  the  ocean,  and  every  one  is  devoured  by  fish  or 
swept  into  the  whalebone  tangle  from  which  none 
ever  return.  And  if  a  lucky  one  which  survives 
does  so  because  it  has  some  little  advantage  over 
its  fellows, — some  added  quality  which  gives  just 
the  opportunity  to  escape  at  the  critical  moment, 
• — then  the  race  will  advance  to  the  extent  of  that 
trifle  and  so  carry  out  the  precept  of  evolution. 
But  even  though  we  may  owe  every  character  of 
body  and  mind  to  the  fulfilment  of  some  such  inex- 
orable law  in  the  past,  yet  the  witnessing  of  the 
operation  brings  ever  a  feeling  of  cruelty,  of  in- 
justice somewhere. 

How  pitiful  the  weak  flight  of  the  last  yellow 
butterfly  of  the  year,  as  with  tattered  and  bat- 
tered wings  it  vainly  seeks  for  a  final  sip  of 
sweets !  The  fallen  petals  and  the  hard  seeds  are 
black  and  odourless,  the  drops  of  sap  are 
hardened.  Little  by  little  the  wings  weaken,  the 
tiny  feet  clutch  convulsively  at  a  dried  weed  stalk, 
and  the  four  golden  wings  drift  quietly  down 
among  the  yellow  leaves,  soon  to  merge  into  the 
dark  mould  beneath.  As  the  butterfly  dies,  a 
stiffened  Katydid  scratches  a  last  requiem  on  his 


266  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

wing  covers — ' '  katy-didn  't — katy-did — hate — y" 
— and  the  succeeding  moment  of  silence  is  broken 
by  the  sharp  rattle  of  a  woodpecker.  We  shake 
off  every  dream  of  the  summer  and  brace  our- 
selves to  meet  and  enjoy  the  keen,  invigorating 
pleasures  of  winter. 


NOVEMBER 


NOVEMBER'S  BIRDS  OF  THE  HEAVENS 

A3  the  whirling  winds  of  winter's  edge  strip 
the  trees  bare  of  their  last  leaves,  the  leaden 
sky  of  the  eleventh  month  seems  to  push  its  cold 
face  closer  to  earth.  "Who  can  tell  when  the  north- 
ern sparrows  first  arrive?  A  whirl  of  brown 
leaves  scatters  in  front  of  us;  some  fall  back  to 
earth ;  others  rise  and  perch  in  the  thick  briers, — 
sombre  little  white-throated  and  tree  sparrows! 
These  brown-coated,  low-voiced  birds  easily  at- 
tract our  attention,  the  more  now  that  the  great 
host  of  brilliant  warblers  has  passed,  just  as  our 
hearts  warm  toward  the  humble  poly-pody  fronds 
(passing  them  by  unnoticed  when  flowers  are 
abundant)  which  now  hold  up  their  bright  green- 
ness amid  all  the  cold. 

But  all  the  migrants  have  not  left  us  yet  by  any 
means,  and  we  had  better  leave  our  boreal  visi- 
tors until  midwinter's  blasts  show  us  these 
hardiest  of  the  hardy  at  their  best. 

We  know  little  of  the  ways  of  the  gaunt  herons 
on  their  southward  journey,  but  day  after  day,  in 
the  marshes  and  along  the  streams,  we  may  see 
the  great  blues  as  they  stop  in  their  flight  to  rest 
for  a  time. 

The  cold  draws  all  the  birds  of  a  species 
together.  Dark  hordes  of  clacking  grackles  pass 


270  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

by,  scores  of  red-winged  blackbirds  and  cowbirds 
mingle  amicably  together,  both  of  dark  hue  but 
of  such  unlike  matrimonial  habits.  A  single  male 
red-wing,  as  we  have  seen,  may  assume  the  cares 
of  a  harem  of  three,  four,  or  five  females,  each  of 
which  rears  her  brown-streaked  offspring  in  her 
own  particular  nest,  while  the  valiant  guardian 
keeps  faithful  watch  over  his  small  colony  among 
the  reeds  and  cat-tails.  But  little  thought  or  care 
does  mother  cowbird  waste  upon  her  offspring. 
No  home  life  is  hers — merely  a  stealthy  approach 
to  the  nest  of  some  unsuspecting  yellow  warbler, 
or  other  small  bird,  a  hastily  deposited  egg,  and 
the  unnatural  parent  goes  on  her  way,  having 
shouldered  all  her  household  cares  on  another. 
Her  young  may  be  hatched  and  carefully  reared 
by  the  patient  little  warbler  mother,  or  the  egg 
may  spoil  in  the  deserted  nest,  or  be  left  in  the 
cold  beneath  another  nest  bottom  built  over  it; 
little  cares  the  cowbird. 

The  ospreys  or  fish  hawks  seem  to  circle  south- 
ward in  pairs  or  trios,  but  some  clear,  cold  day 
the  sky  will  be  alive  with  hawks  of  other  kinds. 
It  is  a  strange  fact  that  these  birds  which  have 
the  power  to  rise  so  high  that  they  fairly  disap- 
pear from  our  sight  choose  the  trend  of  terrestrial 
valleys  whenever  possible,  in  directing  their 
aerial  routes.  Even  the  series  of  New  Jersey 
hills,  flattered  by  the  name  of  the  Orange  Moun- 
tains, seem  to  balk  many  hawks  which  elect  to 


NOVEMBER'S  BIRDS  OF  THE  HEAVENS     271 

change  their  direction  and  fly  to  the  right  or  left 
toward  certain  gaps  or  passes.  Through  these  a 
raptorial  stream  pours  in  such  numbers  during 
the  period  of  migration  that  a  person  with  a  f ore- 
knowledge  of  their  path  in  former  years  may  lie 
in  wait  and  watch  scores  upon  scores  of  these 
birds  pass  close  overhead  within  a  few  hours, 
while  a  short  distance  to  the  right  or  left  one  may 
watch  all  day  without  seeing  a  single  raptor.  The 
whims  of  migrating  birds  are  beyond  our  ken. 

Sometimes,  out  in  the  broad  fields,  one's  eyes 
will  be  drawn  accidentally  upward,  and  a  great 
flight  of  hawks  will  be  seen — a  compact  flock  of 
intercircling  forms,  perhaps  two  or  three  hun- 
dred in  all,  the  whole  number  gradually  passing 
from  view  in  a  southerly  direction,  now  and  then 
sending  down  a  shrill  cry.  It  is  a  beautiful  sight, 
not  very  often  to  be  seen  near  a  city — unless 
watched  for. 

To  a  dweller  in  a  city  or  its  suburbs  I  heartily 
commend  at  this  season  the  forming  of  this  habit, 
— to  look  upward  as  often  as  possible  on  your 
walks.  An  instant  suffices  to  sweep  the  whole 
heavens  with  your  eye,  and  if  the  distant  circling 
forms,  moving  in  so  stately  a  manner,  yet  so 
swiftly,  and  in  their  every  movement  personifying 
the  essence  of  wild  and  glorious  freedom, — if  this 
sight  does  not  send  a  thrill  through  the  onlooker, 
then  he  may  at  once  pull  his  hat  lower  over  his 
eyes  and  concern  himself  only  with  his  immediate 


272  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

business.  The  joys  of  Nature  are  not  for  such  as 
he ;  the  love  of  the  wild  which  exists  in  every  one 
of  us  is,  in  him,  too  thickly  "sicklied  o'er"  with 
the  veneer  of  convention  and  civilisation. 

Even  as  late  as  November,  when  the  water 
begins  to  freeze  in  the  tiny  cups  of  the  pitcher 
plants,  and  the  frost  brings  into  being  a  new  kind 
of  foliage  on  glass  and  stone,  a  few  insect-eaters 
of  the  summer  woods  still  linger  on.  A  belated 
red-eyed  vireo  may  be  chased  by  a  snowbird,  and 
when  we  approach  a  flock  of  birds,  mistaking  them 
at  a  distance  for  purple  finches,  we  may  discover 
they  are  myrtle  warblers,  clad  in  the  faded  yel- 
low of  their  winter  plumage.  In  favoured  locali- 
ties these  brave  little  birds  may  even  spend  the 
entire  winter  with  us. 

One  of  the  best  of  November's  surprises  may 
come  when  all  hope  of  late  migrants  has  been 
given  up.  Walking  near  the  river,  our  glance  falls 
on  what  might  be  a  painter's  palate  with  blended 
colours  of  all  shades  resting  on  the  smooth  sur- 
face of  the  water.  We  look  again  and  again, 
hardly  believing  our  eyes,  until  at  last  the  gorge- 
ous creature  takes  to  wing,  and  goes  humming 
down  the  stream,  a  bit  of  colour  tropical  in  its 
extravagance — and  we  know  that  we  have  seen 
a  male  wood,  or  summer,  duck  in  the  full  grandeur 
of  his  white,  purple,  chestnut,  black,  blue,  and 
brown.  Many  other  ducks  have  departed,  but  this 


NOVEMBER'S  BIRDS  OF  THE  HEAVENS     273 

one  still  swims  among  the  floating  leaves  on  se- 
cluded waterways. 

Now  is  the  time  when  the  woodcock  rises  from 
his  swampy  summer  home  and  zigzags  his  way  to 
a  land  where  earthworms  are  still  active.  Some- 
times in  our  walks  we  may  find  the  fresh  body 
of  one  of  these  birds,  and  an  upward  glance  at  the 
roadside  will  show  the  cause — the  cruel  telegraph 
wires  against  which  the  flight  of  the  bird  has  car- 
ried it  with  fatal  velocity. 

One  of  the  greatest  pleasures  which  November 
has  to  give  us  is  the  joy  of  watching  for  the  long 
lines  of  wild  geese  from  the  Canada  lakes.  Who 
can  help  being  thrilled  at  the  sight  of  these  strong- 
winged  birds,  as  the  V-shaped  flock  throbs  into 
view  high  in  air,  beating  over  land  and  water, 
forest  and  city,  as  surely  and  steadily  as  the  pass- 
ing of  the  day  behind  them.  One  of  the  finest  of 
November  sounds  is  the  "Honk!  honk!"  which 
comes  to  our  ears  from  such  a  company  of  geese, 
— musical  tones  "like  a  clanking  chain  drawn 
through  the  heavy  air." 

At  the  stroke  of  midnight  I  have  been  halted  in 
my  hurried  walk  by  these  notes.  They  are  a  bit 
of  the  wild  north  which  may  even  enter  within  a 
city,  and  three  years  ago  I  trapped  a  fine  gander 
and  a  half  a  dozen  of  his  flock  in  the  New  York 
Zoological  Park,  where  they  have  lived  ever  since 
and  reared  their  golden-hued  goslings,  which 


27*  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

otherwise  would  have  broken  their  shells  on  some 
Arctic  waste,  with  only  the  snowbirds  to  admire, 
and  to  be  watched  with  greedy  eyes  by  the  Arctic 
owls. 

A  haze  on  the  far  horizon, 

The  infinite  tender  sky, 
The  ripe,  rich  tints  of  the  cornfields, 

And  the  wild  geese  sailing  high; 
And  ever  on  upland  and  lowland, 

The  charm  of  the  golden-rod — 
Some  of  us  call  it  Autumn, 

And  others  call  it  God. 

W.  H.  CARRUTH. 


A  PLEA  FOR  THE  SKUNK 

IN  spite  of  constant  persecution  the  skunk  is 
without  doubt  the  tamest  of  all  of  our  wild 
animals,  and  shares  with  the  weasel  and  mink 
the  honour  of  being  one  of  the  most  abundant  of 
the  carnivores,  or  flesh-eaters,  near  our  homes. 
This  is  a  great  achievement  for  the  skunk, — to 
have  thus  held  its  own  in  the  face  of  ever  advanc- 
ing and  destroying  civilisation.  But  the  same 
characteristics  which  enable  it  to  hold  its  ground 
are  also  those  which  emancipate  it  from  its  wild 
kindred  and  give  it  a  unique  position  among  ani- 
mals. Its  first  cousins,  the  minks  and  weasels, 
all  secrete  pungent  odours,  which  are  unpleasant 
enough  at  close  range,  but  in  the  skunk  the  great 
development  of  these  glands  has  caused  a  radical 
change  in  its  habits  of  life  and  even  in  its  physical 
make-up. 

Watch  a  mink  creeping  on  its  sinuous  way, — - 
every  action  and  glance  full  of  fierce  wildness, 
each  step  telling  of  insatiable  seeking  after  liv- 
ing, active  prey.  The  boldest  rat  flees  in  frantic 
terror  at  the  hint  of  this  animal's  presence;  but 
let  man  show  himself,  and  with  a  demoniacal  grin 
of  hatred  the  mink  slinks  into  covert. 

Now  follow  a  skunk  in  its  wanderings  as  it 
comes  out  of  its  hole  in  early  evening,  slowly 

275 


276  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

stretches  and  yawns,  and  with  hesitating,  rolling 
gait  ambles  along,  now  and  then  sniffing  in  the 
grass  and  seizing  some  sluggish  grasshopper  or 
cricket.  Fearlessness  and  confidence  are  what  its 
gait  and  manner  spell.  The  world  is  its  debtor, 
and  all  creatures  in  its  path  are  left  unmolested, 
only  on  evidence  of  good  behaviour.  Far  from 
need  of  concealment,  its  furry  coat  is  striped 
with  a  broad  band  of  white,  signalling  in  the 
dusk  or  the  moonlight,  "Give  me  room  to  pass 
and  go  in  peace!  Trouble  me  and  beware!" 

Degenerate  in  muscles  and  vitality,  the  skunk 
must  forego  all  strenuous  hunts  and  trust  to  craft 
and  sudden  springs,  or  else  content  himself  with 
the  humble  fare  of  insects,  helpless  young  birds, 
and  poor,  easily  confused  mice.  The  flesh  of  the 
skunk  is  said  to  be  sweet  and  toothsome,  but  few 
creatures  there  are  who  dare  attempt  to  add  it  to 
their  bill  of  fare !  A  great  horned  owl  or  a  puma 
in  the  extremity  of  starvation,  or  a  vulture  in  dire 
stress  of  hunger, — probably  no  others. 

Far  from  wilfully  provoking  an  attack,  the 
skunk  is  usually  content  to  go  on  his  way  peace- 
fully, and  when  one  of  these  creatures  becomes 
accustomed  to  the  sight  of  an  observer,  no  more 
interesting  and,  indeed,  safer  object  of  study  can 
be  found. 

Depart  once  from  the  conventional  mode  of 
greeting  a  skunk, — and  instead  of  hurling  a  stone 
in  its  direction  and  fleeing,  place,  if  the  oppor- 


A  PLEA  FOR  THE  SKUNK  277 

tunity  present  itself,  bits  of  meat  in  its  way  eve- 
ning after  evening,  and  you  will  soon  learn  that 
there  is  nothing  vicious  in  the  heart  of  the  skunk. 
The  evening  that  the  gentle  animal  appears  lead- 
ing in  her  train  a  file  of  tiny  infant  skunks,  you 
will  feel  well  repaid  for  the  trouble  you  have 
taken.  Baby  skunks,  like  their  elders,  soon  learn 
to  know  their  friends,  and  are  far  from  being  at 
hair-trigger  poise,  as  is  generally  supposed. 


THE  LESSON  OF  THE  WAVE 

THE  sea  and  the  sky  and  the  shore  were  at 
perfect  peace  on  the  day  when  the  young 
gull  first  launched  into  the  air,  and  flew  outward 
over  the  green,  smooth  ocean.  Day  after  day  his 
parents  had  brought  him  fish  and  squid,  until  his 
baby  plumage  fell  from  him  and  his  beautiful 
wing-feathers  shot  forth, — clean-webbed  and  elas- 
tic. His  strong  feet  had  carried  him  for  days  over 
the  expanse  of  sand  dunes  and  pebbles,  and  now 
and  then  he  had  paddled  into  deep  pools  and 
bathed  in  the  cold  salt  water.  Most  creatures  of 
the  earth  are  limited  to  one  or  the  other  of  these 
two  elements,  but  now  the  gull  was  proving  his 
mastery  over  a  third.  The  land,  the  sea,  were  left 
below,  and  up  into  the  air  drifted  the  beautiful 
bird,  every  motion  confident  with  the  instinct  of 
ages. 

The  usefulness  of  his  mother's  immaculate 
breast  now  becomes  apparent.  A  school  of  small 
fish  basking  near  the  surface  rise  and  fall  with 
the  gentle  undulating  swell,  seeing  dimly  over- 
head the  blue  sky,  flecked  with  hosts  of  fleecy 
white  clouds.  A  nearer,  swifter  cloud  approaches, 
hesitates,  splashes  into  their  midst, — and  the  par- 
ent gull  has  caught  her  first  fish  of  the  day.  In- 
stinctively the  young  bird  dives;  in  his  joy  of 

278 


THE  LESSON  OF  THE  WAVE  279 

very  life  he  cries  aloud, — the  gull-cry  which  his 
ancestors  of  long  ago  have  handed  down  to  him. 
At  night  he  seeks  the  shore  and  tucks  his  bill 
into  his  plumage;  and  all  because  of  something 
within  him,  compelling  him  to  do  these  things. 

But  far  from  being  an  automaton,  his  bright 
eye  and  full-rounded  head  presage  higher  things. 
Occasionally  his  mind  breaks  through  the  mist  of 
instinct  and  reaches  upward  to  higher  activity. 

As  with  the  other  wild  kindred  of  the  ocean, 
food  was  the  chief  object  of  the  day's  search. 
Fish  were  delicious,  but  were  not  always  to  be 
had ;  crabs  were  a  treat  indeed,  when  caught  una- 
wares, but  for  mile  after  mile  along  the  coast 
were  hosts  of  mussels  and  clams, — sweet  and 
lucious,  but  incased  in  an  armour  of  shell,  through 
which  there  was  no  penetrating.  However  swift 
a  dash  was  made  upon  one  of  these, — always  the 
clam  closed  a  little  quicker,  sending  a  derisive 
shower  of  drops  over  the  head  of  the  gull. 

Once,  after  a  week  of  rough  weather,  the  storm 
gods  brought  their  battling  to  a  climax.  Great 
green  walls  of  foaming  water  crashed  upon  the 
rocks,  rending  huge  boulders  and  sucking  them 
down  into  the  black  depths.  Over  and  through  the 
spray  dashed  the  gull,  answering  the  wind's  howl 
— shriek  for  shriek,  poising  over  the  fearful  bat- 
tlefield of  sea  and  shore. 

A  wave  mightier  than  all  hung  and  curved,  and 
a  myriad  shell-fish  were  torn  from  their  sheltered 


280  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

nooks  and  hurled  high  in  air,  to  fall  broken  and 
helpless  among  the  boulders.  The  quick  eye  of 
the  gull  saw  it  all,  and  at  that  instant  of  intensest 
chaos  of  the  elements,  the  brain  of  the  bird  found 
itself. 

Shortly  afterward  came  night  and  sleep,  but  the 
new-found  flash  of  knowledge  was  not  lost. 

The  next  day  the  bird  walked  at  low  tide  into 
the  stronghold  of  the  shell-fish,  roughly  tore  one 
from  the  silky  strands  of  its  moorings,  and  carry- 
ing it  far  upward  let  it  fall  at  random  among  the 
rocks.  The  toothsome  morsel  was  snatched  from 
its  crushed  shell  and  a  triumphant  scream  told  of 
success,— a  scream  which,  could  it  have  been 
interpreted,  should  have  made  a  myriad,  myriad 
mussels  shrink  within  their  shells  I 

From  gull  to  gull,  and  from  flock  to  flock,  the 
new  habit  spread,  imitation  taking  instant  advan- 
tage of  this  new  source  of  food.  When  to-day 
we  walk  along  the  shore  and  see  flocks  of  gulls 
playing  ducks  and  drakes  with  the  unfortunate 
shell-fish,  give  them  not  too  much  credit,  but  think 
of  some  bird  which  in  the  long  ago  first  learned 
the  lesson,  whether  by  chance  or,  as  I  have  sug- 
gested, by  observing  the  victims  of  the  wavers. 

No  scientific  facts  are  these,  but  merely  a  logi- 
cal reasoning  deduced  from  the  habits  and  traits 
of  the  birds  as  we  know  them  to-day ;  a  theory  to 
hold  in  mind  while  we  watch  for  its  confirmation 


THE  LESSON  OF  THE  WAVE  281 

in  the  beginning  of  other  new  and  analogous 
habits. 

The  world  is  too  much  with  us;  late  and  soon, 
Getting  and  spending,  we  lay  waste  our  powers; 

Little  we  see  in  Nature  that  is  ours; 

We  have  given  our  hearts  away,  a  sordid  boon ! 

This  sea  that  bares  her  bosom  to  the  moon, 
The  winds  that  will  be  howling  at  all  hours, 
And  are  up-gathered  now  like  sleeping  flowers; 

For  this,  for  everything,  we  are  out  of  tune; 

It  moves  us  not. — Great  God !  I'd  rather  be 
A  Pagan  suckled  in  a  creed  outworn; 

So  might  I,  standing  on  this  pleasant  lea, 
Have  glimpses  that  would  make  me  less  forlorn; 

Have  sight  of  Proteus  rising  from  the  sea; 
Or  hear  old  Triton  blow  bis  wreathed  horn. 

WILLIAM  WOBDSWORTH. 


WE  GO  A-SPONGING 

*¥  71  7BEN  a  good  compound  microscope  becomes 
V  V  as  common  an  object  in  our  homes  as  is 
a  clock  or  a  piano,  we  may  be  certain  that  the  suc- 
ceeding generation  will  grow  up  with  a  much 
broader  view  of  life  and  a  far  greater  realisation 
of  the  beauties  of  the  natural  world.  To  most  of 
us  a  glance  through  a  microscope  is  almost  as 
unusual  a  sight  as  the  panorama  from  a  balloon. 
While  many  of  the  implements  of  a  scientist 
arouse  enthusiasm  only  in  himself,  in  the  case  of 
the  revelations  of  this  instrument,  the  average 
person,  whatever  his  profession,  cannot  fail  to 
be  interested. 

Many  volumes  have  been  written  on  the  micro- 
scopic life  of  ponds  and  fields,  and  in  a  short  essay 
only  a  hint  of  the  delights  of  this  fascinating  study 
can  be  given. 

Any  primer  of  Natural  History  will  tell  us  that 
our  bath  sponges  are  the  fibrous  skeletons  of 
aquatic  animals  which  inhabit  tropical  seas,  but 
few  people  know  that  in  the  nearest  pond  there 
are  real  sponges,  growing  sometimes  as  large  as 
one's  head  and  which  are  not  very  dissimilar  to 
those  taken  from  among  the  corals  of  the 
Bahamas.  We  may  bring  home  a  twig  covered 
with  a  thick  growth  of  this  sponge;  and  by 

282 


WE  GO  A-SPONGING  283 

dropping  a  few  grains  of  carmine  into  the  water, 
the  currents  which  the  little  sponge  animals  set 
up  are  plainly  visible.  In  winter  these  all  die,  and 
leave  within  their  meshes  numbers  of  tiny  winter 
buds,  which  survive  the  cold  weather  and  in  the 
spring  begin  to  found  new  colonies.  If  we  ex- 
amine the  sponges  in  the  late  fall  we  may  find 
innumerable  of  these  statoblasts,  as  they  are 
called. 

Scattered  among  them  will  sometimes  be 
crowds  of  little  wheels,  surrounded  with  double- 
ended  hooks.  These  have  no  motion  and  we  shall 
probably  pass  them  by  as  minute  burrs  or  seeds 
of  some  water  plant.  But  they,  too,  are  winter 
buds  of  a  strange  group  of  tiny  animals.  These 
are  known  as  Polyzoans  or  Bryozoans ;  and  though 
to  the  eye  a  large  colony  of  them  appears  only  as 
a  mass  of  thick  jelly,  yet  when  placed  in  water 
and  left  quiet,  a  wonderful  transformation  comes 
over  the  bit  of  gelatine.  .  .  .  "Perhaps  while  you 
gaze  at  the  reddish  jelly  a  pink  little  projection 
appears  within  the  field  of  your  lens,  and  slowly 
lengthens  and  broadens,  retreating  and  reappear- 
ing, it  may  be,  many  times,  but  finally,  after  much 
hesitation,  it  suddenly  seems  to  burst  into  bloom. 
A  narrow  body,  so  deeply  red  that  it  is  often 
almost  crimson,  lifts  above  the  jelly  a  crescentic 
disc  ornamented  with  two  rows  of  long  tentacles 
that  seem  as  fine  as  hairs,  and  they  glisten  and 
sparkle  like  lines  of  crystal  as  they  wave  and  float 


284  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

and  twist  the  delicate  threads  beneath  your 
wondering  gaze.  Then,  while  you  scarcely 
breathe,  for  fear  the  lovely  vision  will  fade, 
another  and  another  spreads  its  disc  and  waves  its 
silvery  tentacles,  until  the  whole  surface  of  that 
ugly  jelly  mass  blooms  like  a  garden  in  Paradise 
— blooms  not  with  motionless  perianths,  but  with 
living  animals,  the  most  exquisite  that  God  has 
allowed  to  develop  in  our  sweet  waters."  At  the 
slightest  jar  every  animal-flower  vanishes 
instantly. 

A  wonderful  history  is  behind  these  little  crea- 
tures and  very  different  from  that  of  most  mem- 
bers of  the  animal  kingdom.  While  crabs,  butter- 
flies, and  birds  have  evolved  through  many  and 
varied  ancestral  forms,  the  tiny  Bryozoans,  or, 
being  interpreted,  moss-animals,  seem  throughout 
all  past  ages  to  have  found  a  niche  for  themselves 
where  strenuous  and  active  competition  is  absent. 
Year  after  year,  century  upon  century,  age  upon 
age,  they  have  lived  and  died,  almost  unchanged 
down  to  the  present  day.  When  you  look  at  the 
tiny  animal,  troubling  the  water  and  drawing  its 
inconceivably  small  bits  of  food  toward  it  upon 
the  current  made  by  its  tentacles,  think  of  the 
earth  changes  which  it  has  survived. 

To  the  best  of  our  knowledge  the  Age  of  Man 
is  but  a  paltry  fifty  thousand  years.  Behind  this 
the  Age  of  Mammals  may  have  numbered  three 
millions ;  ihen  back  of  these  came  the  Age  of  Eep- 


WE  GO  A-SPONGING  285 

tiles  with  more  than  seven  millions  of  years,  dur- 
ing all  of  which  time  the  tentacles  of  unnumbered 
generations  of  Bryozoans  waved  in  the  sea.  Back, 
back  farther  still  we  add  another  seven  million 
years,  or  thereabouts,  of  the  Age  of  the  Amphi- 
bians, when  the  coal  plants  grew,  and  the  Age  of 
the  Fishes.  And  finally,  beyond  all  exact  human 
calculation,  but  estimated  at  some  five  million, 
we  reach  the  Age  of  Invertebrates  in  the  Silurian, 
and  in  the  lowest  of  these  rocks  we  find  beautifully 
preserved  fossils  of  Bryozoans,  to  all  appearances 
as  perfect  in  detail  of  structure  as  these  which  we 
have  before  us  to-day  in  this  twentieth  century 
of  man's  brief  reckoning. 

These  tiny  bits  of  jelly  are  transfigured  as  well 
by  the  grandeur  of  their  unchanged  lineage  as  by 
the  appearance  of  the  little  animals  from  within. 
What  heraldry  can  commemorate  the  beginning 
of  their  race  over  twenty  millions  of  years  in  the 
past! 

The  student  of  mythology  will  feel  at  home 
when  identifying  some  of  the  commonest  objects 
of  the  pond.  And  most  are  well  named,  too,  as 
for  instance  the  Hydra,  a  small  tube-shaped  crea- 
ture with  a  row  of  active  tentacles  at  one  end. 
Death  seems  far  from  this  organism,  which  is 
closely  related  to  the  sea-anemones  and  corals, 
for  though  a  very  brief  drying  will  serve  to  kill 
it,  yet  it  can  be  sliced  and  cut  as  finely  as  possible 
and  each  bit,  true  to  its  name,  will  at  once  proceed 


286  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

to  grow  a  new  head  and  tentacles  complete,  becom- 
ing a  perfect  animal. 

Then  we  shall  often  come  across  a  queer  crea- 
ture with  two  oar-like  feelers  near  the  head  and 
a  double  tail  tipped  with  long  hairs,  while  in  the 
centre  of  the  head  is  a  large,  shining  eye, — 
Cyclops  he  is  rightly  called.  Although  so  small 
that  we  can  make  out  little  of  his  structure  with- 
out the  aid  of  the  lens,  yet  Cyclops  is  far  from 
being  related  to  the  other  still  smaller  beings 
which  swim  about  him,  many  of  which  consist  of 
but  one  cell  and  are  popularly  known  as  animal- 
culse,  more  correctly  as  Protozoans.  Cyclops  has 
a  jointed  body  and  in  many  other  ways  shows  his 
relationship  to  crabs  and  lobsters,  even  though 
they  are  many  times  larger  and  live  in  salt  water. 

Another  member  of  this  group  is  Daphnia, 
although  the  appropriateness  of  this  name  yet 
remains  to  be  discovered ;  Daphnia  being  a  chunky- 
bodied  little  being,  with  a  double-branched  pair  of 
oar-like  appendages,  with  which  he  darts  swiftly 
through  the  water.  Although  covered  with  a  hard 
crust  like  a  crab,  this  is  so  transparent  that  we 
can  see  right  through  his  body.  The  dark  mass 
of  food  in  the  stomach  arid  the  beating  heart  are 
perfectly  distinct.  Often,  near  the  upper  part  of 
the  body,  several  large  eggs  are  seen  in  a  sort  of 
pouch,  where  they  are  kept  until  hatched. 

So  if  the  sea  is  far  away  and  time  hangs  heavy, 
invite  your  friends  to  go  sponging  and  crabbing 


WE  GO  A-SPONGING  287 

in  the  nearest  pond,  and  you  may  be  certain  of 
quieting  their  fears  as  to  your  sanity  as  well  as 
drawing  exclamations  of  delight  from  them  when 
they  see  these  beautiful  creatures  for  the  first 
time. 


DECEMBER 


NEW  THOUGHTS  ABOUT  NESTS 

OUR  sense  of  smell  is  not  so  keen  as  that  of  a 
dog,  who  can  detect  the  tiny  quail  while 
they  are  still  invisible ;  nor  have  we  the  piercing 
sight  of  the  eagle  who  spies  the  grouse  crouching 
hundreds  of  feet  beneath  his  circling  flight;  but 
when  we  walk  through  the  bare  December  woods 
there  is  unfolded  at  last  to  our  eyes  evidence  of 
the  late  presence  of  our  summer's  feathered 
friends — air  castles  and  tree  castles  of  varied  pat- 
terns and  delicate  workmanship. 

Did  it  ever  occur  to  you  to  think  what  the  first 
nest  was  like — what  home  the  first  reptile-like 
scale  flutterers  chose?  Far  back  before  Jurassic 
times,  millions  of  years  ago,  before  the  coming  of 
bony  fishes,  when  the  only  mammals  were  tiny 
nameless  creatures,  hardly  larger  than  mice; 
when  the  great  Altantosaurus  dinosaurs  browsed 
on  the  quaint  herbage,  and  Pterodactyls — those 
ravenous  bat-winged  dragons  of  the  air — hovered 
above  the  surface  of  the  earth, — in  this  epoch  we 
can  imagine  a  pair  of  long-tailed,  half-winged 
creatures  which  skimmed  from  tree  to  tree,  per- 
haps giving  an  occasional  flop — the  beginning  of 
the  marvellous  flight  motions.  Is  it  not  likely  that 
the  Teleosaurs  who  watched  hungrily  from  the 
swamps  saw  them  disappear  at  last  in  a  hollowed 

291 


292  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

cavity  beneath  a  rotten  knothole?  Here,  perhaps, 
the  soft-shelled,  lizard-like  eggs  were  laid,  and 
when  they  gave  forth  the  ugly  creaturelings  did 
not  Father  Creature  flop  to  the  topmost  branch 
and  utter  a  gurgling  cough,  a  most  unpleasant 
grating  sound,  but  grand  in  its  significance,  as 
the  opening  chord  in  the  symphony  of  the  ages  to 
follow? — until  now  the  mockingbird  and  the  night- 
ingale hold  us  spellbound  by  the  wonder  of  their 
minstrelsy. 

Turning  from  our  imaginary  picture  of  the  an- 
cient days,  we  find  that  some  of  the  birds  of  the 
present  time  have  found  a  primitive  way  of  nest- 
ing still  the  best.  If  we  push  over  this  rotten 
stump  we  shall  find  that  the  cavity  near  the  top, 
where  the  wood  is  still  sound,  has  been  used  the 
past  summer  by  the  downy  woodpecker — a  front 
door  like  an  auger  hole,  ceiling  of  rough-hewn 
wood,  a  bed  of  chips ! 

The  chickadee  goes  a  step  further,  and  shows 
his  cleverness  in  sometimes  choosing  a  cavity 
already  made,  and  instead  of  rough,  bare  chips, 
the  six  or  eight  chickadee  youngsters  are  happy 
on  a  hair  mattress  of  a  closely  woven  felt-like 
substance. 

Perhaps  we  should  consider  the  kingfisher  the 
most  barbarous  of  all  the  birds  which  form  a  shel- 
ter for  their  home.  With  bill  for  pick  and  shovel, 
she  bores  straight  into  a  sheer  clay  bank,  and  at 
the  end  of  a  six-foot  tunnel  her  young  are  reared, 


NEW  THOUGHTS  ABOUT  NESTS          293 

their  nest  a  mass  of  fish  bones — the  residue  of 
their  dinners.  Then  there  are  the  aerial  masons 
and  brickmakers — the  eave  swallows,  who  carry 
earth  up  into  the  air,  bit  by  bit,  and  attach  it  to 
the  eaves,  forming  it  into  a  globular,  long-necked 
flask.  The  barn  swallows  mix  the  clay  with  straw 
and  feathers  and  so  form  very  firm  structures  on 
the  rafters  above  the  haymows. 

But  what  of  the  many  nests  of  grasses  and 
twigs  which  we  find  in  the  woods?  How  closely 
they  were  concealed  while  the  leaves  were  on  the 
trees,  and  how  firm  and  strong  they  were  while  in 
use,  the  strongest  wind  and  rain  of  summer  only 
rocking  them  to  and  fro !  But  now  we  must  waste 
no  time  or  they  will  disappear.  In  a  month  or 
more  almost  all  will  have  dissolved  into  frag- 
ments and  fallen  to  earth — their  mission  accom- 
plished. 

Some  look  as  if  disintegration  had  already 
begun,  but  if  we  had  discovered  them  earlier  in 
the  year,  we  should  have  seen  that  they  were 
never  less  fragile  or  loosely  constructed  than  we 
find  them  now.  Such  is  a  cuckoo's  nest,  such  a 
mourning  dove's  or  a  heron's;  merely  a  flat  plat- 
form of  a  few  interlaced  twigs,  through  which  the 
eggs  are  visible  from  below.  Why,  we  ask,  are 
some  birds  so  careless  or  so  unskilful?  The 
European  cuckoo,  like  our  cowbird,  is  a  parasite, 
laying  her  eggs  in  the  nests  of  other  birds;  so, 
perhaps,  neglect  of  household  duties  is  in  the 


294  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

blood.  But  this  style  of  architecture  seems  to 
answer  all  the  requirements  of  doves  and  herons, 
and,  although  with  one  sweep  of  the  hand  we  can 
demolish  one  of  these  flimsy  platforms,  yet  such 
a  nest  seems  somehow  to  resist  wind  and  rain  just 
as  long  as  the  bird  needs  it. 

Did  you  ever  try  to  make  a  nest  yourself?  If 
net,  sometime  take  apart  a  discarded  nest — even 
the  simplest  in  structure — and  try  to  put  it 
together  again.  Use  no  string  or  cord,  but  fasten 
it  to  a  crotch,  put  some  marbles  in  it  and  visit  it 
after  the  first  storm.  After  you  have  picked  up 
all  the  marbles  from  the  ground  you  will  appre- 
ciate more  highly  the  skill  which  a  bird  shows  in 
the  construction  of  its  home.  Whether  a  bird 
excavates  its  nest  in  earth  or  wood,  or  weaves  or 
plasters  it,  the  work  is  all  done  by  means  of  two 
straight  pieces  of  horn — the  bill. 

There  is,  however,  one  useful  substance  which 
aids  the  bird — the  saliva  which  is  formed  in  the 
mucous  glands  of  the  mouth.  Of  course  the  first 
and  natural  function  of  this  fluid  is  to  soften  the 
food  before  it  passes  into  the  crop ;  but  in  those 
birds  which  make  their  nests  by  weaving  together 
pieces  of  twig,  it  must  be  of  great  assistance  in 
softening  the  wood  and  thus  enabling  the  bird 
readily  to  bend  the  twigs  into  any  required  posi- 
tion. Thus  the  catbird  and  rose-breasted  gros- 
beak weave. 

Given  a  hundred  or  more  pieces  of  twigs,  each 


NEW  THOUGHTS  ABOUT  NESTS          295 

an  inch  in  length,  even  a  bird  would  make  but 
little  progress  in  forming  a  cup-shaped  nest,  were 
it  not  that  the  sticky  saliva  provided  cement 
strong  and  ready  at  hand.  So  the  chimney  swift 
finds  no  difficulty  in  forming  and  attaching  her 
mosaic  of  twigs  to  a  chimney,  using  only  very 
short  twigs  which  she  breaks  off  with  her  feet 
while  she  is  on  the  wing. 

How  wonderfully  varied  are  the  ways  which 
birds  adopt  to  conceal  their  nests.  Some  avoid 
suspicion  by  their  audacity,  building  near  a  fre- 
quented path,  in  a  spot  which  they  would  never 
be  suspected  of  choosing.  The  hummingbird  studs 
the  outside  of  its  nest  with  lichens,  and  the  vireo 
drapes  a  cobweb  curtain  around  her  fairy  cup. 
Few  nests  are  more  beautiful  and  at  the  same  time 
more  durable  than  a  vireo 's.  I  have  seen  the 
nests  of  three  successive  years  in  the  same  tree, 
all  built,  no  doubt,  by  the  same  pair  of  birds,  the 
nest  of  the  past  summer  perfect  in  shape  and 
quality,  that  of  the  preceding  year  threadbare, 
while  the  home  which  sheltered  the  brood  of  three 
summers  ago  is  a  mere  flattened  skeleton,  remind- 
ing one  of  the  ribs  and  stern  post  of  a  wrecked 
boat  long  pounded  by  the  waves. 

The  subject  of  nests  has  been  sadly  neglected 
by  naturalists,  most  of  whom  have  been  chiefly 
interested  in  the  owners  or  the  contents ;  but  when 
the  whys  and  wherefores  of  the  homes  of  birds 
are  made  plain  we  shall  know  far  more  concern- 


296  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

ing  the  little  carpenters,  weavers,  masons,  and 
basket-makers  who  hang  our  groves  and  decorate 
our  shrubbery  with  their  skill.  When  on  our  win- 
ter's  walk  we  see  a  distorted,  wind-torn,  grass  cup, 
think  of  the  quartet  of  beautiful  little  creatures, 
now  flying  beneath  some  tropical  sun,  which  owe 
their  lives  to  the  nest,  and  which,  if  they  are 
spared,  will  surely  return  to  the  vicinity  next 
summer. 

That  time  of  year  thou  may'st  in  me  behold, 
When  yellow  leaves,  or  none,  or  few,  do  hang 
Upon  those  boughs  which  shake  against  the  cold, — : 
Bare,  ruin'd  choirs,  where  late  the  sweet  birds  sang. 

SHAKESPEARE. 


LESSONS  FROM  AN  ENGLISH  SPARROW 

MANY  people  say  they  love  Nature,  but  as 
they  have  little  time  to  go  into  the  country 
they  have  to  depend  on  books  for  most  of  their 
information  concerning  birds,  flowers,  and  other 
forms  of  life.  There  is,  however,  no  reason  why 
one  should  not,  even  in  the  heart  of  a  great  city, 
begin  to  cultivate  his  powers  of  observation.  Let 
us  take,  for  example,  the  omnipresent  English 
sparrow.  Most  of  us  probably  know  the  difference 
between  the  male  and  female  English  sparrows, 
but  I  venture  to  say  that  not  one  in  ten  persons 
could  give  a  satisfactory  description  of  the  colours 
of  either.  How  much  we  look  and  how  little  we 
really  see ! 

Little  can  be  said  in  favour  of  the  English  spar- 
rows '  disposition,  but  let  us  not  blame  them  for 
their  unfortunate  increase  in  numbers.  Man 
brought  them  from  England,  where  they  are  kept 
in  check  by  Nature 's  wise  laws.  These  birds  were 
deliberately  introduced  where  Nature  was  not 
prepared  for  them. 

When  we  put  aside  prejudice  we  can  see  that 
the  male  bird,  especially  when  in  his  bright  spring 
colours,  is  really  very  attractive,  with  his  ashy 
gray  head,  his  back  streaked  with  black  and  bay, 
the  white  bar  on  his  wings  and  the  jet  black  chin 

297 


298  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

and  throat  contrasting  strongly  with  the  uni- 
formly light-coloured  under  parts.  If  this  were 
a  rare  bird  the  "black-throated  sparrow"  would 
enjoy  his  share  of  admiration. 

It  is  wonderful  how  he  can  adapt  himself  to  new 
conditions,  nesting  anywhere  and  everywhere,  and 
this  very  adaptation  is  a  sign  of  a  very  high  order 
of  intelligence.  He  has,  however,  many  character- 
istics which  tell  us  of  his  former  life.  A  few  of 
the  habits  of  this  bird  may  be  misleading.  His 
thick,  conical  bill  is  made  for  crushing  seeds,  but 
he  now  feeds  on  so  many  different  substances  that 
its  original  use,  as  shown  by  its  shape,  is  obscured. 
If  there  were  such  a  thing  as  vaudeville  among 
birds,  the  common  sparrow  would  be  a  star  imita- 
tor. He  clings  to  the  bark  of  trees  and  picks  out 
grubs,  supporting  himself  with  his  tail  like  a 
woodpecker;  he  launches  out  into  the  air,  taking 
insects  on  the  wing  like  a  flycatcher ;  he  clings  like 
a  chickadee  to  the  under  side  of  twigs,  or  hovers 
in  front  of  a  heap  of  insect  eggs,  presenting  a 
feeble  imitation  of  a  hummingbird.  These  modes 
of  feeding  represent  many  different  families  of 
birds. 

Although  his  straw  and  feather  nests  are  shape- 
less affairs,  and  he  often  feeds  on  garbage,  all 
aesthetic  feeling  is  not  lost,  as  we  see  when  he 
swells  out  his  black  throat  and  white  cravat, 
spreads  tail  and  wing  and  beseeches  his  lady-love 
to  admire  him.  Thus  he  woos  her  as  long  as  he 


LESSONS  FROM  AN  ENGLISH  SPARROW     299 

is  alone,  but  when  several  other  eager  suitors 
arrive,  his  patience  gives  out,  and  the  courting 
turns  into  a  football  game.  Eough  and  tumble  is 
the  word,  but  somehow  in  the  midst  of  it  all,  her 
highness  manages  to  make  her  mind  known  and 
off  she  flies  with  the  lucky  one.  Thus  we  have 
represented,  in  the  English  sparrows,  the  two  ex- 
tremes of  courtship  among  birds. 

It  is  worth  noting  that  the  male  alone  is  orna- 
mented, the  colours  of  the  female  being  much 
plainer.  This  dates  from  a  time  when  it  was 
necessary  for  the  female  to  be  concealed  while 
sitting  on  the  eggs.  The  young  of  both  sexes  are 
coloured  like  their  mother,  the  young  males  not 
acquiring  the  black  gorget  until  perfectly  able  to 
take  care  of  themselves.  About  the  plumage  there 
are  some  interesting  facts.  The  young  bird  moults 
twice  before  the  first  winter.  The  second  moult 
brings  out  the  mark  on  the  throat,  but  it  is  rusty 
now,  not  black  in  colour ;  his  cravat  is  grayish  and 
the  wing  bar  ashy.  In  the  spring,  however,  a 
noticeable  change  takes  place,  but  neither  by  the 
moulting  nor  the  coming  in  of  plumage.  The 
shaded  edges  of  the  feathers  become  brittle  and 
break  off,  bringing  out  the  true  colours  and  mak- 
ing them  clear  and  brilliant.  The  waistcoat  is 
brushed  until  it  is  black  and  glossy,  the  cravat 
becomes  immaculate,  and  the  wristband  or  wing 
bar  clears  up  until  it  is  pure  white. 

The  homes  of  these  sparrows  are  generally  com- 


300  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

posed  of  a  great  mass  of  straw  and  feathers,  with 
the  nest  in  the  centre ;  but  the  spotted  eggs,  per- 
haps, show  that  these  birds  once  built  open  nests, 
the  dots  and  marks  on  the  eggs  being  of  use  in 
concealing  their  conspicuous  white  ground.  Some- 
thing seems  already  to  have  hinted  to  Nature  that 
this  protection  is  no  longer  necessary,  and  we 
often  find  eggs  almost  white,  like  those  of  wood- 
peckers and  owls,  which  nest  in  dark  places. 

We  have  all  heard  of  birds  flocking  together  for 
some  mutual  benefit — the  crows,  for  instance, 
which  travel  every  winter  day  across  country  to 
favourite  "  roosts. "  In  the  heart  of  a  city  we  can 
often  study  this  same  phenomenon  of  birds 
gathering  together  in  great  flocks.  In  New  York 
City,  on  One  Hundred  and  Twenty-fifth  Street, 
there  stands  a  tree — a  solitary  reminder  of  the 
forest  which  once  covered  all  this  paved  land. 
To  this,  all  winter  long,  the  sparrows  begin  to 
flock  about  four  or  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon. 
They  come  singly  and  in  twos  and  threes  until 
the  bare  limbs  are  black  with  them  and  there 
seems  not  room  for  another  bird;  but  still  they 
come,  each  new  arrival  diving  into  the  mass  of 
birds  and  causing  a  local  commotion.  By  seven 
o'clock  there  are  hundreds  of  English  sparrows 
perching  in  this  one  tree.  At  daylight  they  are 
off  again,  whirring  away  by  scores,  and  in  a  few 
minutes  the  tree  is  silent  and  empty.  The  same 


LESSONS  FROM  AN  ENGLISH  SPARROW     301 

habit  is  to  be  seen  in  many  other  cities  and  towns, 
for  thus  the  birds  gain  mutual  warmth. 

Nature  will  do  her  best  to  dimmish  the  number 
of  sparrows  and  to  regain  the  balance,  but  to  do 
this  the  sparrow  must  be  brought  face  to  face  with 
as  many  dangers  as  our  wild  birds,  and  although, 
owing  to  the  sparrows'  fearlessness  of  man,  this 
may  never  happen,  yet  at  least  the  colour  protec- 
tions and  other  former  safeguards  are  slowly 
being  eliminated.  On  almost  every  street  we  may 
see  albino  or  partly  albino  birds,  such  as  those 
with  white  tails  or  wings.  White  birds  exist  in  a 
wild  state  only  from  some  adaptation  to  their  sur- 
roundings. A  bird  which  is  white  simply  because 
its  need  of  protection  has  temporarily  ceased, 
would  become  the  prey  of  the  first  stray  hawk 
which  crossed  its  path.  [We  cannot  hope  to 
exterminate  the  English  sparrow  even  by  the  most 
wholesale  slaughter,  but  if  some  species  of  small 
Hawk  or  butcher  bird  could  ever  become  as  fear- 
less an  inhabitant  of  our  cities  as  these  birds, 
their  reduction  to  reasonable  numbers  would  be  a 
matter  of  only  a  few  months. 

So  dainty  in  plumage  and  hue, 

A  study  in  gray  and  brown, 
How  little,  how  little  we  knew 

The  pest  he  would  prove  to  the  town ! 

From  dawn  until  daylight  grows  dim, 

Perpetual  chatter  and  scold. 
No  winter  migration  for  him, 

Not  even  afraid  of  the  cold! 


802  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

Scarce  a  song-bird  he  fails  to  molest, 

Belligerent,  meddlesome  thing! 
Wherever  he  goes  as  a  guest 

He  is  sure  to  remain  as  a  King. 

MAKY  ISABELLA  FOBSYTH. 


THE  PERSONALITY  OF  TREES 

HOW  many  of  us  think  of  trees  almost  as  we 
do  of  the  rocks  and  stones  about  us, — as  all 
but  inanimate  objects,  standing  in  the  same  rela- 
tion to  our  earth  as  does  the  furry  covering  of  an 
animal  to  its  owner.  The  simile  might  be  carried 
out  more  in  detail,  the  forests  protecting  the  con- 
tinents from  drought  and  flood,  even  as  the  coat 
of  fur  protects  its  owner  from  extremes  of  heat 
and  cold. 

When  we  come  to  consider  the  tree  as  a  living 
individual,  a  form  of  life  contemporaneous  with 
our  own,  and  to  realise  that  it  has  its  birth  and 
death,  its  struggles  for  life  and  its  periods  of 
peace  and  abundance,  we  will  soon  feel  for  it  a 
keener  sympathy  and  interest  and  withal  a  ven- 
eration greater  than  it  has  ever  aroused  in  us 
before. 

Of  all  living  things  on  earth,  a  tree  binds  us 
most  closely  to  the  past.  Some  of  the  giant  tor- 
toises of  the  Galapagos  Islands  are  thought  to  be 
four  hundred  years  old  and  are  probably  the 
oldest  animals  on  the  earth.  There  is,  however, 
nothing  to  compare  with  the  majesty  and 
grandeur  of  the  Sequoias — the  giant  redwoods  of 
California — the  largest  of  which,  still  living, 
reach  upward  more  than  one  hundred  yards  above 


304  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

the  ground,  and  show,  by  the  number  of  their 
rings,  that  their  life  began  from  three  to  five 
thousand  years  ago.  Our  deepest  feelings  of 
reverence  are  aroused  when  we  look  at  a  tree 
which  was  ' '  one  thousand  years  old  when  Homer 
wrote  the  Iliad ;  fifteen  hundred  years  of  age  when 
Aristotle  was  foreshadowing  his  evolution  theory 
and  writing  his  history  of  animals ;  two  thousand 
years  of  age  when  Christ  walked  upon  earth; 
nearly  four  thousand  years  of  age  when  the 
'  Origin  of  Species '  was  written.  Thus  the  life  of 
one  of  these  trees  spanned  the  whole  period  before 
the  birth  of  Aristotle  (384  B.C.)  and  after  the 
death  of  Darwin  (A.D.  1882),  the  two  greatest  nat- 
ural philosophers  who  have  lived." 

Considered  not  only  individually,  but  taken  as  a 
group,  the  Sequoias  are  among  the  oldest  of  the 
old.  Geologically  speaking,  most  of  the  forms  of 
life  now  in  existence  are  of  recent  origin,  but  a 
full  ten  million  of  years  ago  these  giant  trees  .were 
developed  almost  as  highly  as  they  are  to-day.  At 
the  end  of  the  coal  period,  when  the  birds  and 
mammals  of  to-day  were  as  yet  unevolved,  exist- 
ing only  potentially  in  the  scaly,  reptile-like  crea- 
tures of  those  days,  the  Sequoias  waved  their 
needles  high  in  air. 

In  those  days  these  great  trees  were  found  over 
the  whole  of  Canada,  Greenland,  and  Siberia,  but 
the  relentless  onslaught  of  the  Ice  Age  wrought 
terrible  destruction  and,  like  the  giant  tortoises 


THE  PERSONALITY  OF  TREES  305 

among  reptiles,  the  apteryx  among  birds,  and  the 
bison  among  mammals,  the  forlorn  hope  of  the 
great  redwoods,  making  a  last  stand  in  a  few 
small  groves  of  California,  awaits  total  extinc- 
tion at  the  hands  of  the  most  terrible  of  Nature 's 
enemies — man.  When  the  last  venerable  giant 
trunk  has  fallen,  the  last  axe-stroke  which  severs 
the  circle  of  vital  sap  will  cut  the  only  thread  of 
individual  life  which  joins  in  time  the  beating  of 
our  pulses  to-day  with  the  beginning  of  human 
history  and  philosophy, — thousands  of  years  in 
the  past. 

Through  all  the  millions  of  years  during  which 
the  evolution  of  modern  forms  of  life  has  been 
going  on,  then  as  now,  trees  must  have  entered 
prominently  into  the  environment  and  lives  of  the 
terrestrial  animals.  Ages  ago,  long  before  snakes 
and  four-toed  horses  were  even  foreshadowed, 
and  before  the  first  bird-like  creatures  had  ap- 
peared, winged  reptile-dragons  flew  about,  doubt- 
less roosting  or  perching  on  the  Triassic  and 
Jurassic  trees.  Perhaps  the  very  pieces  of  coal 
which  are  burned  in  our  furnaces  once  bent  and 
swayed  under  the  weight  of  these  bulky  animals. 
Something  like  six  millions  of  years  ago,  long- 
tailed,  fluttering  birds  appeared,  with  lizard-like 
claws  at  the  bend  of  their  wings  and  with  jaws 
filled  with  teeth.  These  creatures  were  certainly 
arboreal,  spending  most  of  their  time  among  the 
branches  of  trees.  So  large  were  certain  great 


306  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

sloth-like  creatures  that  they  uprooted  the  trees 
bodily,  in  order  to  feed  on  their  succulent  leaves, 
sometimes  bending  their  trunks  down  until  their 
branches  were  within  reach. 

On  a  walk  through  the  woods  and  fields  to-day, 
how  seldom  do  we  find  a  dead  insect !  "When  sick 
and  dying,  nine  out  of  ten  are  snapped  up  by  frog, 
lizard,  or  bird ;  the  few  which  die  a  natural  death 
seeming  to  disintegrate  into  mould  within  a  very 
short  space  of  time.  There  is,  however,  one  way 
in  which,  through  the  long,  long  thousands  of  cen- 
turies, insects  have  been  preserved.  The  spicy 
resin  which  flowed  from  the  ancient  pines 
attracted  hosts  of  insects,  which,  tempted  by  their 
hope  of  food,  met  their  death — caught  and  slowly 
but  surely  enclosed  by  the  viscid  sap,  each  antenna 
and  hair  as  perfect  as  when  the  insect  was  alive. 
Thus,  in  this  strangely  fortunate  way,  we  may 
know  and  study  the  insects  which,  millions  of 
years  ago,  fed  on  the  flowers  or  bored  into  the 
bark  of  trees.  We  have  found  no  way  to  improve 
on  Nature  in  this  respect,  for  to-day  when  we 
desire  to  mount  a  specimen  permanently  for 
microscopical  work,  we  imbed  it  in  Canada 
balsam. 

If  suddenly  the  earth  should  be  bereft  of  all 
trees,  there  would  indeed  be  consternation  and 
despair  among  many  classes  of  animals.  Although 
in  the  sea  there  are  thousands  of  creatures, 
which,  by  their  manner  of  life,  are  prohibited 


THE  PERSONALITY  OF  TREES  307 

from  ever  passing  the  bouiidary  line  between  land 
and  water,  yet  many  sea-worms,  as  for  example 
the  teredo,  or  ship-worm,  are  especially  fash- 
ioned for  living  in  and  perhaps  feeding  on  wood, 
in  the  shape  of  stray  floating  trees  and  branches, 
the  bottoms  of  ships,  and  piles  of  wharves.  Of 
course  the  two  latter  are  supplied  by  man,  but 
even  before  his  time,  floating  trees  at  sea  must 
have  been  plentiful  enough  to  supply  homes  for 
the  whole  tribe  of  these  creatures,  unless  they 
made  their  burrows  in  coral  or  shells. 

The  insects  whose  very  existence,  in  some  cases, 
depends  upon  trees,  are  innumerable.  What,  for 
example,  would  become  of  the  larvae  of  the  cicada, 
or  locust,  which,  in  the  cold  and  darkness  of  their 
subterranean  life,  for  seventeen  years  suck  the 
juicy  roots  of  trees;  or  the  caterpillars  of  the 
moths,  spinning  high  their  webs  among  the  leaves ; 
or  the  countless  beetles  whose  grubs  bore  through 
and  through  the  trunk  their  sinuous,  sawdusty 
tunnels;  or  the  ichneumon  fly,  which  with  an 
instrument — surgical  needle,  file,  augur,  and  scroll 
saw  all  in  one — deposits,  deep  below  the  bark,  its 
eggs  in  safety  ?  If  forced  to  compete  with  terres- 
trial species,  the  tree  spiders  and  scorpions  would 
quickly  become  exterminated;  while  especially 
adapted  arboreal  ants  would  instantly  disappear. 

We  cannot  entirely  exclude  even  fishes  from  our 
list;  as  the  absence  of  mangroves  would  inci- 
dentally affect  the  climbing  perch  and  catfishes! 


308  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

The  newts  and  common  toads  would  be  in  no  wise 
dismayed  by  the  passing  of  the  trees,  but  not  so 
certain  tadpoles.  Those  of  our  ditches,  it  is  true, 
would  live  and  flourish,  but  there  are,  in  the  world, 
many  curious  kinds  which  hatch  and  grow  up  into 
frogs  in  curled-up  leaves  or  in  damp  places  in 
the  forks  of  branches,  and  which  would  find  them- 
selves homeless  without  trees.  Think,  too,  of  the 
poor  green  and  brown  tree  frogs  with  their  sucker 
feet,  compelled  always  to  hop  along  the  ground! 

Lizards,  from  tiny  swifts  to  sixty-inch  iguanas, 
would  sorely  miss  the  trees,  while  the  lithe  green 
tree  snakes  and  the  tree  boas  would  have  to 
change  all  their  life  habits  in  order  to  be  able  to 
exist.  But  as  for  the  cold,  uncanny  turtles  and 
alligators, — what  are  trees  to  them ! 

In  the  evolution  of  the  birds  and  other  animals, 
the  cry  of  "excelsior"  has  been  followed  literally 
as  well  as  theoretically  and,  with  a  few  exceptions, 
the  highest  in  each  class  have  not  only  risen  above 
their  fellows  in  intelligence  and  structure,  but 
have  left  the  earth  and  climbed  or  flown  to  the 
tree-tops,  making  these  their  chief  place  of  abode. 

Many  of  the  birds  which  find  their  food  at  sea, 
or  in  the  waters  of  stream  and  lake,  repair  to  the 
trees  for  the  purpose  of  building  their  nests 
among  the  branches.  Such  birds  are  the  pelicans, 
herons,  ibises,  and  ospreys ;  while  the  wood  ducks 
lay  their  eggs  high  above  the  ground  in  the  hoi- 


THE  PERSONALITY  OF  TREES  309 

lows  of  trees.  Parrots,  kingfishers,  swifts,  and 
hummingbirds  are  almost  helpless  on  the  ground, 
their  feet  being  adapted  for  climbing  about  the 
branches,  perching  on  twigs,  or  clinging  to  the 
hollows  of  trees.  Taken  as  a  whole,  birds  would 
suffer  more  than  any  other  class  of  creatures  in  a 
deforested  world.  The  woodpeckers  would  be 
without  home,  food,  and  resting-place;  except, 
possibly,  the  flicker,  or  high-hole,  who  is  either  a 
retrograde  or  a  genius,  whichever  we  may  choose 
to  consider  him,  and  could  live  well  enough  upon 
ground  ants.  But  as  to  his  nest — he  would  have  to 
sharpen  his  wits  still  more  to  solve  successfully 
the  question  of  the  woodpecker  motto,  "What  is 
home  without  a  hollow  tree?" 

Great  gaps  would  be  made  in  the  ranks  of  the 
furry  creatures — the  mammals.  Opossums  and 
raccoons  would  find  themselves  in  an  embarrass- 
ing position,  and  as  for  the  sloths,  which  never 
descend  to  earth,  depending  for  protection  on  their 
resemblance  to  leaves  and  mossy  bark,  they  would 
be  wiped  out  with  one  fell  swoop.  The  arboreal 
squirrels  might  learn  to  burrow,  as  so  many  of 
their  near  relations  have  done,  but  their  muscles 
would  become  cramped  from  inactivity  and  their 
eyes  would  often  strain  upward  for  a  glimpse  of 
the  beloved  branches.  The  bats  might  take  to 
caves  and  the  vampires  to  outhouses  and  dark 
crevices  in  the  rocks,  but  most  of  the  monkeys  and 


310  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

apes  would  soon  become  extinct,  while  a  chim- 
panzee or  orang-utan  would  become  a  cripple, 
swinging  ever  painfully  along  between  the 
knuckles  of  crutch-like  forearms,  searching, 
searching  forever  for  the  trees  which  gave  him 
his  form  and  structure,  and  without  which  his  life 
and  that  of  his  race  must  abruptly  end. 

Leaving  the  relations  which  trees  hold  to  the 
animals  about  them  and  the  part  which  they  have 
played  in  the  evolution  of  life  on  the  earth  in  past 
epochs,  let  us  consider  some  of  the  more  humble 
trees  about  us.  Not,  however,  from  the  standpoint 
of  the  technical  botanist  or  the  scientific  forester, 
but  from  the  sympathetic  point  of  view  of  a  liv- 
ing fellow  form,  sharing  the  same  planet,  both 
owing  their  lives  to  the  same  great  source  of  all 
light  and  heat,  and  subject  to  the  same  extremes 
of  heat  and  cold,  storm  and  drought.  How 
wonderful,  when  we  come  to  think  of  it,  is  a  tree, 
to  be  able  to  withstand  its  enemies,  elemental  and 
animate,  year  after  year,  decade  after  decade, 
although  fast-rooted  to  one  patch  of  earth.  An 
animal  flees  to  shelter  at  the  approach  of  gale  or 
cyclone,  or  travels  far  in  search  of  abundant  food. 
Like  the  giant  algae,  ever  waving  upward  from  the 
bed  of  the  sea,  which  depend  on  the  nourishment 
of  the  surrounding  waters,  so  the  tree  blindly 
trusts  to  Nature  to  minister  to  its  needs,  filling  its 
leaves  with  the  light-given  greenness,  and  feeling 


THE  PERSONALITY  OF  TREES  311 

for  nutritious  salts  with  the  sensitive  tips  of  its 
innumerable  rootlets. 

Darwin  has  taught  us,  and  truly,  that  a  relent- 
less struggle  for  existence  is  ever  going  on  around 
us,  and  although  this  is  most  evident  to  our  eyes 
in  a  terrible  death  battle  between  two  great  beasts 
of  prey,  yet  it  is  no  less  real  and  intense  in  the 
case  of  the  bird  pouring  forth  a  beautiful  song,  or 
the  delicate  violet  shedding  abroad  its  perfume. 
To  realise  the  host  of  enemies  ever  shadowing  the 
feathered  songster  and  its  kind,  we  have  only  to 
remember  that  though  four  young  birds  may  be 
hatched  in  each  of  fifty  nests,  yet  of  the  two  hun- 
dred nestlings  an  average  often  of  but  one  lives 
to  grow  to  maturity, — to  migrate  and  to  return  to 
the  region  of  its  birth. 

And  the  violet,  living,  apparently,  such  a  quiet 
life  of  humble  sweetness?  Fortunate  indeed  is  it 
if  its  tiny  treasure  of  seeds  is  fertilized,  and  then 
the  chances  are  a  thousand  to  one  that  they  will 
grow  and  ripen  only  to  fall  by  the  wayside,  or  on 
barren  ground,  or  among  the  tares. 

At  first  thought,  a  tree  seems  far  removed  from 
all  such  struggles.  How  solemn  and  grand  its 
trunk  stands,  column-like  against  the  sky!  How 
puny  and  weak  we  seem  beside  it!  Its  sturdy 
roots,  sound  wood,  and  pliant  branches  all  spell 
power.  Nevertheless,  the  old,  old  struggle  is  as 
fierce,  as  unending,  here  as  everywhere.  A  mon- 


812  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

arch  of  the  forest  has  gained  its  supremacy  only 
by  a  lifelong  battle  with  its  own  kind  and  with  a 
horde  of  alien  enemies. 

From  the  heart  of  the  tropics  to  the  limit  of 
tree-growth  in  the  northland  we  find  the  battle  of 
life  waged  fiercely,  root  contending  with  root  for 
earth-food,  branch  with  branch  for  the  light  which 
means  life. 

In  a  severe  wrestling  match,  the  moments  of 
supremest  strain  are  those  when  the  opponents 
are  fast-locked,  motionless,  when  the  advantage 
comes,  not  with  quickness,  but  with  staying 
power;  and  likewise  in  the  struggle  of  tree  with 
tree  the  fact  that  one  or  two  years,  or  even  whole 
decades,  watch  the  efforts  of  the  branches  to  lift 
their  leaves  one  above  the  other,  detracts  nothing 
from  the  bitterness  of  the  strife. 

Far  to  the  north  we  will  sometimes  find  groves 
of  young  balsam  firs  or  spruce, — hundreds  of  the 
same  species  of  sapling  growing  so  close  together 
that  a  rabbit  may  not  pass  between.  The  slender 
trunks,  almost  touching  each  other,  are  bare  of 
branches.  Only  at  the  top  is  there  light  and  air, 
and  the  race  is  ever  upward.  One  year  some  slight 
advantage  may  come  to  one  young  tree, — some 
delicate  unbalancing  of  the  scales  of  life,  and  that 
fortunate  individual  instantly  responds,  reaching 
several  slender  side  branches  over  the  heads  of 
his  brethren.  They  as  quickly  show  the  effects  of 
tHe  lessened  light  and  forthwith  the  race  is  at  an 


THE  PERSONALITY  OF  TREES  31? 

end.  The  victor  shoots  up  tall  and  straight, 
stamping  and  choking  out  the  lives  at  his  side,  as 
surely  as  if  his  weapons  were  teeth  and  claws 
instead  of  delicate  root-fibres  and  soughing 
foliage. 

The  contest  with  its  fellows  is  only  the  first  of 
many.  The  same  elements  which  help  to  give  it 
being  and  life  are  ever  ready  to  catch  it  unawares, 
to  rend  it  limb  from  limb,  or  by  patient,  long- 
continued  attack  bring  it  crashing  to  the  very 
dust  from  which  sprang  the  seed. 

We  see  a  mighty  spruce  whose  black  leafage  has 
waved  above  its  fellows  for  a  century  or  more, 
paying  for  its  supremacy  by  the  distortion  of 
every  branch.  Such  are  to  be  seen  clinging  to  the 
rocky  shores  of  Fundy,  every  branch  and  twig 
curved  toward  the  land;  showing  the  years  of 
battling  with  constant  gales  and  blizzards.  Like 
giant  weather-vanes  they  stand,  and,  though  there 
is  no  elasticity  in  their  limbs  and  they  are  gnarled 
and  scarred,  yet  our  hearts  warm  in  admiration 
of  their  decades  of  patient  watching  beside  the 
troubled  waters.  For  years  to  come  they  will 
defy  every  blast  the  storm  god  can  send  against 
them,  until,  one  wild  day,  when  the  soil  has  grown 
scanty  around  the  roots  of  one  of  the  weakest,  it 
will  shiver  and  tremble  at  some  terrific  onslaught 
of  wind  and  sleet ;  it  will  fold  its  branches  closer 
about  it  and,  like  the  Indian  chieftains,  who  per- 
haps in  years  past  occasionally  watched  the  wa~ 


814  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

ters  by  the  side  of  the  young  sapling,  the  con- 
quered tree  will  bow  its  head  for  the  last  time  to 
the  storm. 

Farther  inland,  sheltered  in  a  narrow  valley, 
stands  a  sister  tree,  seeded  from  the  same  cone  as 
the  storm-distorted  spruce.  The  wind  shrieks  and 
howls  above  the  little  valley  and  cannot  enter ;  but 
the  law  of  compensation  brings  to  bear  another 
element,  silent,  gentle,  but  as  deadly  as  the  howl- 
ing blast  of  the  gale.  All  through  the  long  winter 
the  snow  sifts  softly  down,  finding  easy  lodgment 
on  the  dense-foliaged  branches.  From  the  sur- 
rounding heights  the  white  crystals  pour  down 
until  the  tree  groans  with  the  massive  weight. 
Her  sister  above  is  battling  with  the  storm,  but 
hardly  a  feather's  weight  of  snow  clings  to  her 
"waving  limbs. 

The  compressed,  down-bent  branches  of  the  val- 
ley spruce  soon  become  permanently  bent  and  the 
strain  on  the  trunk  fibres  is  great.  At  last,  with  a 
despairing  crash,  one  great  limb  gives  way  and  is 
torn  bodily  from  its  place  of  growth.  The  very 
vitals  of  the  tree  are  exposed  and  instantly  every 
splintered  cell  is  filled  with  the  sifting  snow. 
Helpless  the  tree  stands,  and  early  in  the  spring, 
at  the  first  quickening  of  summer 's  growth,  a  salve 
of  curative  resin  is  poured  upon  the  wound.  But 
it  is  too  late.  The  invading  water  has  done  its 
work  and  the  elements  have  begun  to  rot  the  very 
heart  of  the  tree.  How  much  more  to  be  desired  is 


THE  PERSONALITY  OF  TREES  315 

the  manner  of  life  and  death  of  the  first  spruce, 
battling  to  the  very  last ! 

A  beech  seedling  which  takes  root  close  to  the 
bank  of  a  stream  has  a  good  chance  of  surviving, 
since  there  will  be  no  competitors  on  the  water 
side  and  moisture  and  air  will  never  fail.  But 
look  at  some  ancient  beech  growing  thus,  whose 
smooth,  whitened  bole  encloses  a  century  of 
growth  rings.  Offsetting  its  advantages,  the 
stream,  little  by  little,  has  undermined  the  maze 
of  roots  and  the  force  of  annual  freshets  has 
trained  them  all  in  a  down-stream  direction.  It 
is  an  inverted  reminder  of  the  wind-moulded 
spruce.  Although  the  stout  beech  props  itself  by 
great  roots  thrown  landward,  yet,  sooner  or  later, 
the  ripples  will  filter  in  beyond  the  centre  of 
gravity  and  the  mighty  tree  will  topple  and  mingle 
with  its  shadow-double  which  for  so  many  years 
the  stream  has  reflected. 

Thus  we  find  that  while  without  moisture  no 
tree  could  exist,  yet  the  same  element  often  brings 
death.  The  amphibious  mangroves  which  fringe 
the  coral  islands  of  the  southern  seas  hardly  attain 
to  the  dignity  of  trees,  but  in  the  mysterious 
depths  of  our  southern  swamps  we  find  the 
strangely  picturesque  cypresses,  which  defy  the 
waters  about  them.  One  cannot  say  where  trunk 
ends  and  root  begins,  but  up  from  the  stagnant 
slime  rise  great  arched  buttresses,  so  that  the  tree 
seems  to  be  supported  on  giant  six-  or  eight-legged 


316  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

stools,  between  the  arches  of  which  the  water 
flows  and  finds  no  chance  to  use  its  power.  Here, 
in  these  lonely  solitudes, — heron-haunted,  snake- 
infested, — the  hanging  moss  and  orchids  search 
out  every  dead  limb  and  cover  it  with  an  un- 
natural greenness.  Here,  great  lichens  grow  and 
a  myriad  tropical  insects  bore  and  tunnel  their 
way  from  bark  to  heart  of  tree  and  back  again. 
Here,  in  the  blackness  of  night,  when  the  air  is 
heavy  with  hot,  swampy  odours,  and  only  the 
occasional  squawk  of  a  heron  or  cry  of  some  ani- 
mal is  heard,  a  rending,  grinding,  crashing,  breaks 
suddenly  upon  the  stillness,  a  distant  boom  and 
splash,  awakening  every  creature.  Then  the 
silence  again  closes  down  and  we  know  that  a 
cypress,  perhaps  linking  a  trio  of  centuries,  has 
yielded  up  its  life. 

Leaving  the  hundred  other  mysteries  which  the 
trees  of  the  tropics  might  unfold,  let  us  consider 
for  a  moment  the  danger  which  the  tall,  success- 
ful tree  invites, — the  penalty  which  it  pays  for 
having  surpassed  all  its  other  brethren.  It  pre- 
eminently attracts  the  bolts  of  Jove  and  the  lesser 
trees  see  a  blinding  flash,  hear  a  rending  of  heart 
wood,  and  when  the  storm  has  passed,  the  tree, 
before  perfect  in  trunk,  limbs,  and  foliage,  is  now 
but  a  heap  of  charred  splinters. 

Many  a  great  willow  overhanging  the  banks  of 
a  wide  river  could  tell  interesting  tales  of  the 


THE  PERSONALITY  OF  TREES  317 

scars  on  its  trunk.  That  lower  wound  was  a  deep 
gash  cut  by  some  Indian,  perhaps  to  direct  a  war- 
party  making  their  way  through  the  untrodden 
wilderness ;  this  bare,  unsightly  patch  was  burnt 
out  by  the  signal  fire  of  one  of  our  forefather 
pioneers.  And  so  on  and  on  the  story  would  un- 
fold, until  the  topmost,  freshly  sawed-off  limb  had 
for  its  purpose  only  the  desire  of  the  present 
owner  for  a  clearer  view  of  the  water  beyond. 

Finally  we  come  to  the  tree  best  beloved  of  us 
in  the  north, — the  carefully  grafted  descendant  of 
some  sour  little  wild  crab-apple.  A  faithful 
servant  indeed  has  the  monarch  of  the  old  orchard 
proved.  It  has  fed  us  and  our  fathers  before  us, 
and  its  gnarled  trunk  and  low-hanging  branches 
tell  the  story  of  the  rosy  fruit  which  has  weighed 
down  its  limbs  year  after  year.  Old  age  has  laid 
a  heavy  hand  upon  it,  but  not  until  the  outermost 
twig  has  ceased  to  blossom,  and  its  death,  unlike 
that  of  its  wild  kindred,  has  come  silently  and 
peacefully,  do  we  give  the  order  to  have  the  tree 
felled.  Even  in  its  death  it  serves  us,  giving  back 
from  the  open  hearth  the  light  and  heat  which  it 
has  stored  up  throughout  the  summers  of  many 
years. 

Let  us  give  more  thought  to  the  trees  about  us, 
and  when  possible  succour  them  in  distress, 
straighten  the  bent  sapling,  remove  the  parasitic 
lichen,  and  give  them  the  best  chance  for  a  long, 
patient,  strong  life. 


318  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

In  the  far  North  stands  a  Pine-tree,  lone, 

Upon  a  wintry  height; 
It  sleeps;  around  it  snows  have  thrown 

A  covering  of  white. 

It  dreams  forever  of  a  Palm 
That,  far  i'  the  morning-hind, 

Stands  silent  in  a  most  sad  calm 
Midst  of  the  burning  sand. 
(From  the  German  of  Heine.)  SIDKET  LAHI 


AN  OWL  OF  THE  NOETH 

IT  is  midwinter,  and  from  the  northland  a  bliz- 
zard of  icy  winds  and  swirling  snow  crystals 
is  sweeping  with  fury  southward  over  woods  and 
fields.  We  sit  in  our  warm  room  before  the  crack- 
ling log  fire  and  listen  to  the  shriek  of  the  gale 
and  wonder  how  it  fares  with  the  little  bundles  of 
feathers  huddled  among  the  cedar  branches. 

We  picture  to  ourselves  all  the  wild  kindred 
sheltered  from  the  raging  storm;  the  gray  squir- 
rels rocking  in  their  lofty  nests  of  leaves;  the 
chipmunks  snug  underground;  the  screech  owls 
deep  in  the  hollow  apple  trees,  all  warm  and  dry. 

But  there  are  those  for  whom  the  blizzard  has 
no  terrors.  Far  to  the  north  on  the  barren  wastes 
of  Labrador,  where  the  gale  first  comes  in  from 
the  sea  and  gathers  strength  as  it  comes,  a  great 
owl  flaps  upward  and  on  broad  pinions,  white  as 
the  driving  snowflakes,  sweeps  southward  with 
the  storm.  Now  over  ice-bound  river  or  lake,  or 
rushing  past  a  myriad  dark  spires  of  spruce,  then 
hovering  wonderingly  over  a  multitude  of  lights 
from  the  streets  of  some  town,  the  strong  Arctic 
bird  forges  southward,  until  one  night,  if  we  only 
knew,  we  might  open  our  window  and,  looking  up- 
ward, see  two  great  yellow  eyes  apparently  hang- 
ing in  space,  the  body  and  wings  of  the  bird  in 

319 


320  THE  LOG  OF  THE  SUN 

snow-white  plumage  lost  amidst  the  flakes.  We 
thrill  in  admiration  at  the  grand  bird,  so  fearless 
of  the  raging  elements. 

Only  the  coldest  and  fiercest  storms  will  tempt 
him  from  the  north,  and  then  not  because  he  fears 
snow  or  cold,  but  in  order  to  keep  within  reach  of 
the  snowbirds  which  form  his  food.  He  seeks  for 
places  where  a  less  severe  cold  encourages  small 
birds  to  be  abroad,  or  where  the  snow's  crust  is 
less  icy,  through  which  the  field  mice  may  bore 
their  tunnels,  and  run  hither  and  thither  in  the 
moonlight,  pulling  down  the  weeds  and  cracking 
their  frames  of  ice.  Heedless  of  passing  clouds, 
these  little  rodents  scamper  about,  until  a  darker, 
swifter  shadow  passes,  and  the  feathered  talons 
of  the  snowy  owl  close  over  the  tiny,  shivering 
bundle  of  fur. 

Occasionally  after  such  a  storm,  one  may  come 
across  this  white  owl  in  some  snowy  field,  hunt- 
ing in  broad  daylight ;  and  that  must  go  down  as 
a  red-letter  day,  to  be  remembered  for  years. 

"What  would  one  not  give  to  know  of  his  adven- 
tures since  he  left  the  far  north.  What  stories  he 
could  tell  of  hunts  for  the  ptarmigan, — those 
Arctic  fowl,  clad  in  plumage  as  white  as  his  own ; 
or  the  little  kit  foxes,  or  the  seals  and  polar  bears 
playing  the  great  game  of  life  and  death  among 
the  grinding  icebergs ! 

His  visit  to  us  is  a  short  one.  Comes  the  first 
hint  of  a  thaw  and  he  has  vanished  like  a  melting 


AN  OWL  OF  THE  NORTH  321 

snowflake,  back  to  his  home  and  his  mate.  There 
in  a  hollow  in  the  half-frozen  Iceland  moss,  in 
February,  as  many  as  ten  fuzzy  little  snowy 
owlets  may  grow  up  in  one  nest, — all  as  hardy  and 
beautiful  and  brave  as  their  great  fierce-eyed 
parents. 


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